Fitting Pieces
by Detour
Summary: Preseries. Yeah, it's another fic dealing with how Gibbs met Tony in Baltimore. But come on. Don't you kinda love 'em? Some OCs, crazy action scenes, grumpy Gibbs and unreadable Tony.  Eventually some Ducky, Abby, and, you know, an actual case.
1. Chapter 1

_Most definitely dedicated to AlkalineTeegan, without whom this story would not exist. _

_Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing._

_Additional Disclaimer: Any (huge, gaping) flaws in the handling of procedure are mine; I try to research but sometimes one just has to make a leap, or follow where the storyline leads. Any unkind words towards the city of Baltimore and/or its police are purely for the sake of the fic. _

_Sadly, I don't think there will be much in the way of Mounties in this story, but they'll certainly be back in the sequel to "Obstructed Views" due to overwhelming demand. In the meantime, give this a shot:_

_

* * *

_

The biting March wind was on attack, swirling in deceptively mild circles low to the ground, then suddenly darting upward in spears to strike bits of flesh not covered by clothing. Now that night had fallen, the wind seemed colder and crueler as it invaded the gaps between sleeve and glove, collar and scarf. The temperature was falling rapidly, and the sky promised snow.

The lingering effects of winter were keeping some of the nearby nosy neighbors indoors, but there were still dozens of gawkers surrounding the brightly lit crime scene.

The cops on scene weren't having problems keeping the perimeter clear, but one stupid tourist with a camera had started taking pictures, and suddenly a half dozen people were trying to snap a souvenir, making it a busy evening. Cameras were confiscated, and threats of being taken to a holding cell issued, but neither the cops nor the onlookers seemed extremely concerned. It was just a dance, and one none were more practiced in than the reporters who camped to the side of the observers. But even they were strangely listless, saying the right words, asking the expected questions, but without strong interest.

Murder was not a novel concept in Baltimore.

Gibbs noted these facts but paid little attention to them; future fuzzy-imaged tabloid coverage was not high on the list of things he gave a shit about. He was busy trying to salvage the scene of a cadet's murder. A scene that had been ruined after discovery by local law enforcement officers. Two fucking moronic rookies who couldn't tell the difference between a kid that's been dead for a day and a living human being in need of help.

His own two probies were taking photos and sketching the scene, fairly useless activities since no one could be certain the immediate area looked anything like it had before Dumbass 1 and Dumbass 2 dragged the already stiff body across the alley and into the street for better light, kicking what they called "unimportant junk" out of the way as they moved.

How could anyone have graduated from a police academy without realizing that CPR was not necessary on a body in rigor, or that the Heimlich would not help a kid with blue skin and open, unseeing eyes? What would possess anyone, anywhere, to stab their own EpiPen into a corpse found in an ally?

He took a moment to glare at them both, still sitting on the cold, wet, disgusting ground in the alley where Gibbs had commanded them to stay. They squirmed and looked away from him, back towards the detective trying to simultaneously ream them out and extrapolate pertinent information.

He turned back to the scene. His probies were at least out of the way, and since what they were doing held little chance of being of any use in this case, he was able to ignore them.

His medical examiner was in the middle of another case, and couldn't make the trip tonight. Given the non-pristine nature of the remains, Gibbs didn't bother to argue. The ME's assistant that waited quietly at the corner of the perimeter was capable enough to transport a body bag back to DC.

Gibbs was bagging evidence. It was a farcical task given the amount of trash littering the alley and the space the body had traversed already, but was made even more difficult by the flashes of _something_ his eye kept catching in the crowd. Each time he looked up, he couldn't determine the cause. He tried to convince himself it was just camera flashes.

He knew that wasn't it.

Detective Delilla approached him from the side. His craggy face and deep-sunk eyes were impassive as they met Gibbs', but his voice held a hint of apology and incredulity after his interview with the Baltimore rookies.

"Sorry Gibbs, nothing useful. They responded to a call at 5:07 p.m. from a nearby restaurant owner who reported a body in the alley. When they arrived, no one else was present and…" he gestured towards the body, now sporting a shirt ripped free of buttons, head tilted back and opened and an EpiPen jutting out of the left thigh.

Delilla's thumb and forefinger pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, as he continued. "Paramedics showed up at 5:09 p.m. and stopped them."

"They did all that damage in _two minutes_?"

Delilla ignored the outburst, which was not an unwise choice. "The EMTs radioed in, suggesting someone from homicide come out immediately. Not exactly standard procedure, but at least someone had the brains to use their radio."

Gibbs' disgusted snort also went unanswered.

"I arrived on scene at 5:25. Since the body was already disturbed, I removed the vic's wallet and when I found his ID from the Naval Academy, I called you guys and was told to wait around in the cold and sit on my damn hands while you drove up here from DC. I took statements from the paramedics and let them go. No one touched anything else until you got here at 7:22 p.m."

Gibbs' attention snapped back to the crowd again. He almost had it that time. There was definitely something off out there.

Eyes still on the crowd, but addressing the detective, he ordered, "I expect those two to be made available to me later. If I talk to them now, there might be two more murders."

Delilla nodded, waiting to see what else was coming.

It was a shame. If Delilla had been first on scene, Gibbs might've been able to work peaceably alongside a local LEO for once. Now he was too pissed off to bother thanking Delilla for being competent. Why should he thank Baltimore PD for working to clean up the mess their own officers created?

He dismissed the detective with an angry jerk of his hand, and glanced back down to the cadet's ID, now bagged and on top of an evidence bin. Keith Collins. 21.

Gibbs reached for his much-hated cell phone. He needed to call the Naval Academy and get Collins' records. A few months ago, he would have set one of his probies to finding the number. Now, he had a new weapon against the NCIS paper pushers who had demanded he learn how to use one of these things. He dialed 4-1-1 when he needed a generic number, and the agency got billed a few cents each time. It drove the bookkeepers crazy.

Smirking a little, he dialed the 4, then snapped the phone shut and shoved it in his pocket as he took off running towards the southeast corner of the crime scene, pulling his weapon as he ran.

He'd figured out what was bothering him.

Stillness.

A clean-shaven white male, late twenties, dark jeans, dark jacket, had been standing at various points around the taped off area, silent, still, watching. All the other gawkers were chattering to each other, leaning this way and that trying to get a more gruesome view. This guy wasn't bucking for a better story for the water cooler tomorrow. He was memorizing the scene.

And he had just turned and walked away.

Gibbs' footfalls were masked by the overall buzz of the crowd. He had seen what direction his suspect had taken, and soon had him in sight again. But the further they got from the crowd, the less ambient noise there was in this part of downtown Baltimore at nine o'clock at night.

He closed the gap quickly and stealthily. As he was taking the last three steps to close the distance, his intended prey heard him and spun around, back to a nearby brick building.

Gibbs leveled his gun. "Federal agent. Put your hands on your head and start talking."

"Relax, Marine, I've got –"

The moment the suspect's hand slipped into his jacket and Gibbs spotted the shoulder holster in the dim glow of a nearby streetlight, he leapt. His elbow caught the other man's throat, eliciting a pained squawk from the mouth that had just dared to speak to him in a cocky, condescending tone. Having stunned his opponent, who was now gasping for air, Gibbs quickly holstered his gun and grasped both upper arms in front of him, moving to flip the jerk around, intending to slam him up against the wall with hands held crossed behind his back.

The bastard spun in the same direction Gibbs was moving him, increasing their speed, then slamming Gibbs' right shoulder and his own left side into the brick wall, effectively breaking the hold.

Gibbs grunted and reached for the other man's throat, but his target slithered to the side, and tried to sweep Gibbs' legs out from under him.

Annoyed now, Gibbs – still solid on his feet – smashed the bottom of his heel into the side of his opponent's knee, sending him crashing to the ground. The falling man was wily, and grabbed onto Gibbs' coat as he fell, dragging him along for the ride.

They both hit the ground hard, but Gibbs managed to catch himself with his right hand, absorbing most of the impact. He pushed himself back to his feet, but before he had completely risen, was tackled in the ribs by the bruiser, bowled over back into the street.

Damn guy was fast.

They scrabbled, each searching for purchase, neither finding any. Gibbs could tell he had more training than his opponent, but the guy was quick and strong, and was obviously no newcomer to a street brawl.

In the near-dark, they broke apart, each regaining their feet while warily circling the other. As his face came under the orange glow of the streetlight, Gibbs was surprised to see a smile twitch at the corner of the other man's mouth. His hands had stopped any movements that might be construed as reaching under the black leather jacket, staying well away from his weapon. He tried to say something, but still couldn't find his voice after Gibbs' initial blow.

Still circling, Gibbs felt himself smiling in return. So the kid wanted to play, did he? Well that was fine with him. He may regret it tomorrow, but a nice little fist fight seemed like the perfect way to release tension before returning to the Baltimore PD's station house where he'd have to interview those fucking morons who destroyed his scene.

He jumped forward, landing two solid blows to his opponent's ribs. The other man shifted to lessen the impact, but did not try to dodge; instead, he used the opportunity to throw his own punches, connecting once solidly with Gibbs' jaw, and glancing another across his temple.

Gibbs sent his elbow flying again, but it was blocked this time with a forearm, and answered by a left hook that Gibbs himself blocked with a forearm. In close now, he tried an uppercut which struck his foe under the chin, likely aggravating the earlier throat injury judging from the gagging noises that followed.

The kid used Gibbs' own earlier move and slammed his heel against the side of Gibbs' knee, momentarily collapsing the leg. He hopped back a few steps, gasping for air.

Gibbs got up more slowly this time, needing a moment of recovery himself. His leg felt weak under him, and his head was ringing, but he noticed with satisfaction that the other man was limping.

Didn't expect that would hinder him much in the fight, though. Bastard was tenacious.

His adversary looked down, and Gibbs saw a half-rusted length of pipe nestled against the side of the building, near an alley entrance. He was too far to make a dash for it himself.

The other man picked up the pipe, rubbing his throat with his other hand and staring at Gibbs.

Suddenly this seemed less like fun.

Until his opponent flung the pipe into an alley. Far, far into the alley.

They both stood still for a moment, listening to the ringing, clunking noise reverberate in the quiet, cold evening, accompanied only by their harsh breaths. They were both under the streetlight now, and Gibbs looked at the man in askance. What the hell?

The other man looked back and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, a small sheepish smile appearing on his face. He flicked his own throat, indicating he still couldn't talk, then shrugged. Straightening back up, he assumed an overly Hollywood fighting stance, using one hand to beckon Gibbs forward in a little "come here" motion that would be more at home in an awful martial arts movie than in a real life street fight.

Gibbs glanced at the guy's face again. Was he serious?

The grin he got in return was also out of place. But it answered his unspoken question. He was both serious, and not serious.

Huh.

Well, that mystery could be solved later. Gibbs waded back into the brawl, trading strike for strike.

His opponent overextended, leaving Gibbs a clear shot to incapacitate the man with another blow to the throat.

He didn't take it.

Given the damage he had already inflicted there, it was possible he could cause a more serious injury than he intended. He threw a punch into ribs, instead.

Expecting the guy to step back at such a solid, centered blow, Gibbs found himself out of position when his foe took the hit with a grunt, and actually managed to step forward into it rather than losing any ground. He now had a clear shot at Gibbs' injured knee.

Gibbs twisted around on his good leg, trying to protect his injured one. He knew his knee would not hold up to another attack.

He also knew he couldn't move fast enough to avoid it. Yet the expected impact never came.

Instead, he got a return punch to the ribs.

They now focused on in-close upper body blows. As his frustration at the past few hours started to wane, Gibbs realized so did the strength of their hits. They were both tiring, just pounding on each other for the sake of pounding.

Something wasn't right with this guy, that was for sure. But maybe it wasn't what he'd originally thought.

Exchanging a last round of blows – head, head, ribs – jaw, ribs, shoulder – the two pushed apart again, panting.

The streetlight glinted off a metallic object at his rival's belt. Gibbs froze for a second, mind wary of a knife, but the glint was gold.

He moved forward, but not in a fighting stance. His pointed finger led the way.

"What the hell is that?"

He got an innocent expression and two hands raised in the air as a reply.

"Don't bullshit me. Is that a badge?"

In a fair imitation of a monkey, the man opposite him used one finger to scratch his scalp, then pulled the badge off of his belt, staring at it as if it were foreign to him. Then he overacted a sudden eureka moment, finger held straight up in the air. He tossed his badge to Gibbs, and reached into his jacket.

Gibbs tensed, but did not order him to stop.

The ham-fisted asshole lifted out his wallet and flipped it open to a Baltimore Police ID. He held it up to his face, pointing first at the ID, then at himself, and nodded. The big dumb grin on his bloody face never dimmed.

Gibbs stalked up to him, checking out the ID, reading the badge. "You didn't think it was important to reveal you were a police officer, Detective DiNozzo?" He let his furiousness come out is his voice, and couldn't resist drawling out the end of the man's name. Di-Nohhh-Zohhh. Rhymed nicely with bozo.

A flash of anger passed over the detective's face, as he again flicked his throat.

Gibbs slapped the man's badge to his chest and stalked away a few paces. "And I'm supposed to feel bad about that? Like it never occurred to you to verbalize you were a cop _before_ reaching into your jacket when a federal agent has a gun pointed at you?"

DiNozzo's face went curiously blank. He shrugged, and set about restoring his badge and ID to their previous resting places.

Gibbs realized he hurt. And it was freezing. He felt blood dripping down the side of his face, and was suddenly unsure how much longer his knee would hold him up.

The cop was bleeding from his right temple and eyebrow. He'd have one hell of a shiner tomorrow. Possibly two. Both of his hands were bleeding, and his lip had cracked open multiple times. Gibbs knew his punches to the younger man's ribs were solid, and his knee couldn't be feeling much better than Gibbs' own malfunctioning joint. But the detective stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth, like an aimless businessman on a lunch break.

What the hell was wrong with this guy?

It started to snow. Big, heavy flakes that felt wonderful on his bruised face.

The two men stood silently for a long time, measuring each other, chins raised in fake defiance that was really just a ruse to catch more of nature's tiny ice packs falling down like frozen pieces of heaven.

"Gibbs? Are you okay?"

Head snapping around, Gibbs identified the voice as coming from one of his probies. He saw them both creeping steadily towards him, eyes and steps tentative. "Who the hell is watching the scene if you two are out here?"

"We'll go back – you've been gone for a half hour, you know? We got worried."

Thirty minutes?

He went running out, gun drawn, and they waited thirty minutes to do anything about it?

Shit, he hated rookies of all kinds right now.

When he turned back to order DiNozzo to follow him, the man was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Four hours later, Gibbs finally walked into the station house. He was tired, freezing, and stiff. And pissed.

Gibbs was very, truly pissed.

He sent his probies to find themselves a hotel. They were useless to him anyway. He bagged as much evidence as he could stand to, and then a few more pieces after that. He helped the ME's assistant wrap up and cart away the body. He left instructions with the officers stationed at the scene to let no one in; he wanted to return in daylight before he released it.

When he finally judged everything that could be done was done, he wearily drove to the station where the two rookies were to be kept available for him to question. He hoped his tiredness would be a boon to interrogating the two, keeping his anger in check.

It was a nice thought, anyway.

He did not expect to be told that the captain had let them go home for the night, or that the captain himself had left some time ago. Delilla was also at home catching up on his beauty sleep. At Gibbs glare, the desk sergeant shrugged. "Nobody knew when you were coming. Got late enough, they figured you'd come tomorrow. Weren't wrong I guess, it is tomorrow!" He boomed out a laugh that echoed through the empty hallways.

Every muscle in Gibbs' body tensed. It hurt, but he couldn't help it. He was holding on to a tenuous control. It was one thing if he _decided_ to leap over the desk and choke the sergeant. It was another thing entirely if he did it only because he lost command of his temper.

"Hey." A low, scratchy sound came from behind him.

Gibbs half-turned to find Detective DiNozzo watching him intently. Visibly reaching some kind of decision, the detective turned and walked back down the hallway he must have come from, calling a hoarse, "Come on."

Wary but lacking any other immediate options, Gibbs followed several paces behind.

They stopped outside a door marked "Homicide," but DiNozzo waved towards the opposing door. "Cleanest men's room in the building." His voice rasped out painfully. "You need clean clothes?"

Gibbs shook his head. "Got a bag in the car."

DiNozzo nodded, and gestured with his head towards the Homicide division door. "Be in here."

Gibbs grunted, and turned to make the trek back to his car. When he returned with his bag and entered the bathroom, he noted that the garbage bins were full of paper towels splotched with red and pink. Apparently the detective had cleaned himself up in here as well.

Just as DiNozzo had, Gibbs wet down several paper towels and set about wiping off all the blood and dirt that caked his skin. He had a small med kit in his bag, but eschewed the band-aids and butterfly bandages. Stuff healed by itself if you let it. Didn't mean you shouldn't keep it clean, though.

His hair felt grimy too, but as he bent to shove it under the faucet, his ribs protested fiercely. Scowling down at them, he made do with scrubbing wet paper towels over his aching head.

He was not looking forward to the next few hours. He could either catch a nap in some uncomfortable chair here, waiting to pounce on the captain as soon as he came in, or he could drag himself back out into the mini blizzard to try to find a hotel.

His knee started shaking as he changed into clean sweats.

Huffing in annoyance, he crossed the hall and entered the room DiNozzo had indicated. Strange that he was a homicide cop. What the hell was he doing memorizing the scene from outside the perimeter?

As he walked in, DiNozzo used his good leg to kick a wheeled computer chair over to him. Seeing as the detective sat in one himself, Gibbs didn't feel so bad accepting the offer. But he walked and pushed the chair back towards the kid before sitting, just because he could.

The left side of DiNozzo's mouth kicked up. He moved a white carton to the edge of his desk. "Chinese from earlier tonight if you're hungry." Pointed at a desk kitty corner to his own. "Empty desk if you want it." Pointed downwards, "Cafeteria is closed for the night, but there's vending machines down there."

It was obvious from the cuts and blossoming bruises on his face that DiNozzo had been in a fight, but he didn't hold himself stiffly at all. And he hadn't limped earlier in the hallway. Was he truly unaffected, or just pretending he was fine?

"The desk sergeant refused to call the captain. You got his number?"

"Yeah, but it won't do you any good." The detective paused for a moment and took a long, slow drink of the steaming mug of tea on his desk. When he resumed, his voice was a little smoother. "He only answers calls from a couple of guys at night. Gotta get whatever it is cleared by them as important enough to disturb him."

"He's got deputy dogs screening his calls?"

"Yep."

Gibbs scowled his opinion of that.

DiNozzo shrugged. "Not stupid, anyway."

"I don't see how he can get away with not taking calls from any of his detectives, at any time of day. Man should never be unavailable."

The detective shrugged again and turned back to the paperwork on his desk.

Gibbs eyed the Chinese food.

DiNozzo reached out to grab some papers from a tray on the corner of his desk and bumped the white carton, sending it tumbling off the edge of this desk.

Gibbs caught it.

Well, now that it was in his hands anyway…he started to eat.

Stopped.

That was no accident.

Started cramming the noodles into his mouth, eyeing his former foe.

Mouth extremely full of noodle goodness, he wiped a hand on his shirt and stretched it out. "Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, NCIS."

Gesture returned immediately, minus the noodles. "Detective Anthony DiNozzo, Baltimore Homicide. Tony."

"Gibbs."

Tony nodded. He nonchalantly turned back to his papers, and said over his shoulder, "Closet to the left has a cot in it."

Gibbs barely refrained from drooling. "Your house."

"Caught a couple hours when you were still out on scene."

Gibbs finished the noodles and tossed the carton in DiNozzo's trash. "How come you were at my scene?"

Tony smiled tightly. "Guy's gotta have a hobby."

"Why are you still here? You on duty by yourself?"

"Not on duty." At Gibbs continued stare, the detective relented, and added, "There's a couple guys on tonight; they're out on a call."

"So why are you still here?"

"Easier to get stuff done at night, when it's quiet."

Maybe. But that didn't explain why he wasn't soaking his battered self in a hot shower at home on this particular night. He glanced at the files on DiNozzo's desk. Case files, but he couldn't see much.

"Cot's pretty comfy."

Gibbs felt a quick smile pass across his face unbidden. "You trying to get rid of me?"

"Nope."

Rolling his eyes, Gibbs pushed up out of the chair – too quickly. His knee started to give, and the chair he'd been sitting on had rolled backwards out of reach when he stood up so suddenly. He felt the young detective tense, ready to grab him if he had to.

Gibbs refused to show weakness in front of this cop, whom he could not yet classify as friendly or unfriendly. He willed his leg to hold steady.

It did.

He strode in quick, choppy steps that were NOT limps towards the indicated door. So what if he did take the cot for a while? Man has to sleep.

* * *

Detective Tony DiNozzo diligently continued doing fake paperwork for twenty minutes after the fed left to get some sleep. When the man did not reappear, he closed the folder and dropped his pen, levering his throbbing leg up onto the recently vacated wheeled desk chair.

He hurt _everywhere_. His throat felt like the two sides of the tube were rubbing against each other. His face was on fire, his head throbbing. Between the damage to his throat and his bruised (cracked?) ribs, he was having some problems drawing in deep breaths without blacking out. Something had torn in his shoulder, and his hands were flayed. His damn knee almost gave out in the short walk down the hallway to Homicide earlier.

He raised his sound leg up onto his desk and leaned back in the chair, groaning quietly.

It had been a long time since he was in a fight where his life wasn't in danger.

It was kind of relaxing. And a bit fun to play the suspect for a few minutes. He knew the fed had spotted him at the crime scene, figured he was being followed as he walked away. When he reached for his ID, had he been provoking the altercation?

Maybe.

He shrugged that notion off; it was unimportant now. He opened the slender center drawer in his desk and took out the case files he poured over every night.

His finger traced an outline on the top folder, an outline of the victim he knew to lie beneath. He had these files memorized. He needed the details of the Collins murder; if it fit with the rest of them, he had to get the specifics.

A part of him acknowledged that he should go home, get some sleep. He had lied to Gibbs earlier about nabbing a nap, just to see if he could get away with it.

He was now secure in the knowledge that he could.

The fed could be a problem. He was only here to focus on one case. One victim. He could easily take the entire case over from Baltimore, taking all the hard evidence with him.

Assuming any had survived the latest adventures of the Wonder Twins.

Tony ran a hand down his face, and winced as it encountered bruises.

How the captain could continue to let those two patrol together was a mystery. It was embarrassing to have all their fuckups tie back to the squad house. They should have been partnered with older uniforms, and certainly separated, since they seemed to bring out the stupid in each other.

Sighing, he pushed those thoughts away. Yeah, the fed could be a problem. But Gibbs also would have access to resources that Baltimore PD didn't have. It was a tough call: Should he push in closer and try to get everything he could out of NCIS? Or write this victim off as a missing data point, and continue with what he already had?

His gut roiled. Writing off victims didn't sit well with him. Neither did getting punched in the stomach repeatedly, but writing someone off was infinitely worse.

Okay, then. Should he try to weasel onto the case, or just try to weasel information out of one of Gibbs' team?

He was getting ahead of himself. First, he needed to confirm if Collins' murder tied into his own investigation. If not, there was nothing to worry over. Gibbs could have the case. Baltimore PD had plenty to work on.

And so did he.


	3. Chapter 3

In the brief seconds between sleep and wakefulness, Gibbs wondered how he had been taken captive, and who was holding him down.

When he forced his eyes open – well, the right eye; the left seemed to be crusted shut – and remembered where he was, he realized that his muscles were just too stiff to move.

Gibbs didn't consider himself old. He could still outrun a suspect, dominate the interrogation room, hold his own in a fight. But this particular morning made him feel old-_er_. Even with his wide range of combat experience, he could only recall awakening this stiff once before.

His mind shied away from the memory.

No way was he going to admit weakness in front of the very people he intended to rip into this morning. With a great force of will, he forced his hands to flex, then his elbows, his shoulders and his neck. Pushing up and back against the wall, he contemplated his bad leg. Would it hold his weight?

He stretched both legs out in front of him, stretching slowly and feeling for weak points. Tentatively sliding off the cot and putting weight onto his knees, he was pleasantly surprised to feel only a mild pain.

Standing and stretching, he winced at the pull on his bruised ribs and rubbed at his gritty eyes. Still, he was lucky. It didn't feel like he'd broken or torn anything. His head hurt more than anything else, and he could ignore that.

Coffee would help.

Grabbing his bag, he slipped out the door and back into the squad room. It was still early for Baltimore PD, apparently, as there were only two men in the room. Both ignored him, as though it were completely normal for an unknown guy to edge out of the cot closet early in the morning.

Closing the door behind him, Gibbs noticed a white piece of paper taped to the outside of the door. It read, "WARNING: Grumpy Fed sleeping. Awaken at your own risk." The handwritten text was accompanied by a crudely-drawn bear with large claws and dripping fangs looming over several small stick figures.

DiNozzo.

With a scowl that hid a surprised smirk, he ripped off the sign, balled it up and threw it in a nearby trash can.

Damn fool.

Gibbs made his way down to the cafeteria, and was pleasantly surprised to find it open, though quite small. He bought and drank a cup of passable coffee before returning to the nonexistent line to buy a muffin and another cup of coffee. Inhaling the muffin as he walked back upstairs, he stopped in the bathroom to change into wrinkled but clean work clothes.

He eyed his empty cup sadly. The foot traffic in the building was picking up. He should go check to see if the captain had deigned to show up.

Sighing, he gave into duty and went out past the homicide department and down to the captain's office, tossing out his empty coffee cup along the way.

Spotting the dark window of the captain's office caused Gibbs to sink into a truly foul mood. It was now 0900 and the captain was not yet at work.

Positioning himself in front of the captain's door, he stood silently, impatiently, imposingly.

An anxious-looking, emaciated lackey with a desk just outside the captain's office showed up within minutes. Gibbs prowled over to the man's desk and continued his loud silent stare.

"Uh, the captain should be here any minute. Really." He didn't sound like he believed it himself.

Gibbs continued to stare.

"I can show you where the cafeteria is if you want to get a cup of coffee." Gibbs' eyes narrowed. The walking skeleton in front of him began to twitch, small tics of his wrists and the corner of his left eye.

"Name," Gibbs barked.

"Officer Leonard Whitford, sir!"

It was unlikely this nervous creature could get the captain here any faster. So…

"My name is Special Agent Gibbs, Officer Whitford." Gibbs used a low tone, and began moving around the side of the desk the officer was using as a shield. "I work for NCIS. Do you know what NCIS is?"

Whitford nodded, and wisely kept silent.

"Good," Gibbs nearly crooned, with a blatantly fake smile on his face. "So you can understand why I need to talk to your captain. About the _murder_ of a sailor that your precinct called me in on."

Whitford nodded.

Gibbs let his voice pick up volume with each word. "And you can imagine that I wasn't very happy to get to your squad house after spending the entire night trying to salvage a crime scene that your own patrolmen royally screwed."

Whitford was very good at nodding. And swallowing.

Well into his Gunny voice now, Gibbs continued, "So maybe, just maybe, you can understand why I will not conveniently leave this door to go get coffee. Can you, officer?"

"Sir, yes sir!" Gibbs could tell by the policeman's posture that he had never been in the military. He let the "sir" slide, refrained from rolling his eyes, and instead implemented a solution to two immediate problems.

"Why don't you go get me that coffee, Whitford," Gibbs commanded quietly, moving right up into the other man's face.

"Okay!"

As Whitford gawkily scurried out of the room, Gibbs allowed himself a momentary chuckle. He sobered quickly upon hearing a muted exchange in the hall, most certainly between the escaping officer and some new party.

Gibbs resumed his post in front of the captain's door just as a short, middle-aged portly man with a politician's fake smile on a reddened face rounded the corner.

"Agent Gibbs, Agent Gibbs, good, you're here. Let's go into my office and talk." The man approached his office but was forced to pull up short for a moment as Gibbs did not immediately move out of the way. Abruptly, he shifted so that the captain could get by him – barely.

Gibbs was considering a rule regarding the inherent untrustworthiness of anyone who repeated your name twice in a row.

Bustling around his little office, the square-headed captain hung up his coat on the corner of a bookcase filled with binders, then smoothed his shirt and extended a hand to Gibbs. "Captain Mallace at your service. Nice to finally meet you. We were worried you got lost out there last night. Waited here for quite some time, quite some time…"

Gibbs ignored the outstretched hand and let a snarl creep into his face and voice. "Did my working late at the compromised scene _inconvenience_ you, captain?"

"Well, you know, these are the hazards of the job one must live with."

Was the man dim?

"Are you dim?" Sometimes these questions need to be asked aloud.

"Dim? No, no, I don't think so. The lighting's pretty strong in here, though it's a little harsh. Thank you for asking, though."

Rarely did these questions have satisfactory replies.

Gibbs simplified. "I need. To talk. To the two patrolmen. Who bungled my crime scene."

"Yes, yes, so sorry about that. But these things do happen. I told those young men to report bring and early this morning for debriefing. They should be here soon."

Gibbs stamped down on his control so hard he stopped breathing for a full minute. Early? _Soon?_ It was nearing 10 a.m. By the time he was able to formulate a verbal response beyond just a string of profanity, the captain had unfortunately taken his silence for acceptance, and moved on.

"Yes, well, case is in Baltimore of course. But victim is a young sailor, poor kid."

Unsure if this buffoon pitied the cadet for being dead or being a sailor, Gibbs raised a warning eyebrow and advanced one step, squaring his shoulders.

"Just saying you're a District man, a Baltimore local could be a big help. Let's keep this friendly and work together."

"You want me to work with one of your team?"

"Delilla is a good man, great detective. He'd be an asset to any investigation."

Gibbs had been thinking he'd request Delillia if the PD pushed a joint investigation. Hearing Mallace suggest him, though, made him reconsider.

"Detective DiNozzo was at my scene last night. Any idea why?"

The captain ran a hand over his buzz cut, which did nothing to hide his receding hair line. "DiNozzo's always popping up here and there. Don't think the kid sleeps, he's got too much energy, energy and curiosity. Annoying, sometimes, but harmless. He was probably just out running and saw the scene. Don't pay any attention to him."

Oh, really?

"I'll work with DiNozzo, or no one."

The skin around the edges of Mallace's eyes and lips tightened, though he attempted a pleased expression. "Sure, sure. That's fine. Let me just have a moment with him to explain the proper etiquette of interagency cooperation."

Gibbs stifled a snort. DiNozzo provoked an interagency street brawl last night, and he still had been treated better afterwards by the detective than the captain seemed capable of ever doing. Mallace was clearly up to something, but was it pertinent to his case, or just petty bureaucratic bullshit?

Spotting Whitford lingering outside the captain's door with two cups in hand, Gibbs finished the conversation.

"You talk with DiNozzo and get those uniforms in an interview room within an hour. Or I will _personally_ redefine your notion of interagency interaction."

He stepped out after issuing what he felt was a rather standard threat – an oldie but a goodie – before the captain could decide if he was cowed or incensed. Taking the proffered cup from the officer, Gibbs took a long drink as Mallace yelled, "Leonard!" and Whitford ran into the little room.

A short, heated exchange followed, ending with a louder, "And get DiNozzo in here now!"

As Whitford scrambled out of the office and back towards Homicide, DiNozzo conveniently appeared.

"Hey Leo, how you doing?"

"Tony! Captain wants to see you, right away."

"On my way!" DiNozzo seemed annoyingly cheerful, and moved with a quiet grace that again made Gibbs question how much – or rather how little – damage the detective had taken from last night's activities.

Leonard seemed almost restive after DiNozzo's sudden appearance. "You think they'll be long?"

"No sir, this won't take long at all." The officer's voice was considerably firmer than it had been.

Gibbs looked at him, considering. "Whitford, how much of my conversation with the captain did you hear?"

"Most of it." Though he looked a little nervous again, the man's voice was still firm.

"You got any tips for me?"

After hesitating a moment, he slowly said, "Captain made a slip of the tongue."

Not what he had expected. But okay. "What was that?"

"Delilla – he is a great detective."

Gibbs thought back. "A great detective…but only a good man?"

Whitford sat down and drank coffee.

"And DiNozzo?"

The officer opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment the detective in question sauntered back out of the office.

"Gibbs," he dared to scold, "have you been telling stories? I just got the most useful lecture on cooperating with feds."

"Wasn't about last night, DiNozzo." Though it was strange that no one had mentioned either his or the detective's injuries.

DiNozzo cocked his head to the side, waiting for more information.

"Your ass is mine for the remainder of this investigation."

Gibbs read a quick flash of surprise in the detective's eyes, but was uncertain what his following expression indicated. Wariness? Satisfaction? Triumph?

Whitford was gaping at them, mouth open. He might be more than he originally seemed, but no one would accuse the boy of being smooth.

Gibbs eyed his new pain in the ass. "Show me where the uniforms are. Or are going to be, since I doubt they're here yet."

DiNozzo shrugged and turned, walking back down the hallway in the direction he had appeared from, without bothering to check if Gibbs was following or not.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony recalculated his next move. Apparently he didn't need to sway Gibbs into working with him. That was unexpected, but should prove beneficial. It would be much easier to get the information he needed now.

But why exactly had the man requested – or demanded – to work with him? It had to have been Gibbs' decision, Mallace would never have assigned him this case.

"You called me Marine last night." Gibbs issued the words as a statement, though they were obviously meant as a question.

"Was I wrong?" Tony stopped in front of the interview room's closed door, careful to keep his expression light.

"No." Gibbs shook his head and took another sip of coffee. "Just wondering where that came from."

"Demeanor, attitude, tone of voice, style of movement…not just anyone can pull off that particular haircut."

Gibbs did not look entirely convinced. "Don't think you've served yourself."

"No." Tony forced down the instant bubble of laughter rippling up his chest at the very thought.

"Parents?"

"No." Less happy with this line of questioning, but his voice stayed light and steady.

"Was pretty dark out last night to be seeing haircuts. So where are you pulling your familiarity of the corps from?"

DiNozzo smiled. "We should go in. They've been waiting for an hour." Opening the door, he led the way into a small interview room where the two rookies were already seated on the far side of the table.

As he did not yet have the particulars of the case, and as he was curious to see the interview stylings of his new Marine acquaintance, Tony took one of the remaining two chairs in the room, wisely remaining quiet.

The patrolmen both looked to Tony first. He returned their silent, pleading looks with a cool gaze and stayed mute.

Gibbs closed the door. Very, very slowly. He drained his coffee in one swig, then tossed the empty cup into the small black trash can by the door's entrance and moved with agonizing lack of speed to take the lone remaining chair, next to Tony. Quietly, he ordered, "Report."

Cameron, the larger of the two, started talking. "It's just like we told Delilla, sir, we got a call last night from a guy that owns a Thai restaurant on our beat. We were right around the corner, so we ran over on foot and found the guy. The dead guy in the ally, not the owner, I mean. They owner stayed inside, he didn't want to stick around the dead guy. But we didn't know he was really dead…" He looked over to his partner for support.

Eglee was more obviously nervous than his partner. Sweat dotted his forehead and his eyes remained downcast. "He was really cold, and kinda stiff, but it was freezing out, and his eyes were closed with little frost flakes on them." His hands darted frantically over his own eyelashes, ineffectively trying to mime the image. "We thought maybe he'd been jumped for cash or something and left there to freeze to death."

Cameron's blond, pasty head bobbed in agreement. "And it was hard to see back there, even with our flashlights. So we called the paramedics and I dragged the guy out to better light."

Eglee's eyes flickered up to briefly brush his so far silent interviewers. "We tried to revive him. Couldn't get a pulse." Tony was rapidly beginning to believe that any brains this team did lay claim to belonged to Eglee, if only because he knew enough to be embarrassed. "We've been called in on a heart attack, and a few car accidents, but the victims were all still alive…" He trailed off.

His partner picked up the thread, "I've heard stories where guys were frozen, but not completely gone, you know? Like freezing 'em preserved 'em. So while Eglee was doing CPR, I stuck him with my EpiPen, hoped it might get his heart going again. But he still didn't move." Cameron looked crushed and confused, as though the victim had deliberately defied letting the duo's ministrations work. He looked to his partner to continue the back-and-forth report. But the smaller, darker man didn't pipe up this time.

Gibbs' glare was a fifth physical presence in the room. He blazed it at the pair of patrolmen without pause. Eglee slipped lower and lower in his chair, his chin falling further and further towards his chest as the stare pulsed at him. The force of it now seemed to be keeping his mouth from opening.

The glare turned to a scowl, and the scowl filled every inch of the room, a pulsing, throbbing, hostile entity. Tony was even starting to feel it, despite knowing it was not intended for him, and despite normally having very little susceptibility to such tactics. He purposefully relaxed the muscles in his lower back and upper arms that he belatedly realized had tensed in reaction to the emotion in the room. He bit back a wince as he realized unconsciously tightening up his muscles had reawakened the aches caused by last night's activities.

It was rare that anyone could get him to tense up like that without him letting it happen.

Interest piqued, he turned his attention to focus more on Gibbs than the cops across the table. Doing so allowed him to watch the explosion as it unfolded.

With little change to his expression, Gibbs slammed the side of his fist down on the table, causing a near-deafening "BOOM" in the small, silent room. Cameron's eyes jerked from his partner back to the agent, and Eglee's head snapped up involuntarily.

Gibbs stood, palms flat on the table, leaning towards the officers. His mouth curled up at the corner, but it was not a smile. His eyes never changed, never deviated. "What was the status of the body when you found it? How was it positioned?"

Neither responded. They looked hypnotized, their eyes never leaving Gibbs' face.

"Where was the victim in relation to the restaurant's back door? Did it look like he'd been dumped out the back door, or came in through the alley?"

Tony sat up in his chair, moving to perch on the edge. He didn't like the direction this was moving in. This NCIS guy was too intense; he was freaking the beat cops out. And his voice was moving into a shout.

If he could just turn the man's attention for a moment, redirect it to himself… "Gibbs," he called quietly.

He was ignored.

"Was any of the 'junk' you tossed aside directly on, against or under the body? Were there any particular odors noticeable near his mouth when you tried resuscitation?"

With a forceful shove that Tony feared indicated an impending complete loss of control, Gibbs shoved the table to the left, where it upended on its side with a startling racket.

"Special Agent Gibbs!" Tony moved to get into the other man's face before he could step nearer to the still-frozen cops. "Outside!"

Gibbs scowled ferociously, but turned on his heel and exited the room.

DiNozzo was hot on his heels. As the door swung shut, he hissed, "What the hell, Gibbs? Why are you wasting our time? You're not going to get information out of them if they're too intimidated to speak. This isn't an interrogation, those kids aren't suspects. They're witnesses. They're awful witnesses, and bad cops." He paused, but Gibbs remained facing away from him, body stiff.

"They're bad cops," Tony repeated, easing to a more normal tone of voice. "Stupid, unthinking. But they meant well. That's not enough, not for a cop, but it's something. They should never have been partnered together. If they'd been with older, more experienced guys, this never would have happened."

"And it never will again."

He had been afraid of this. "So you're planning to get them fired?"

Gibbs finally turned around. Blue eyes merrily dancing, he fired a short grin towards the detective. "Nah. Try to get them reassigned to other guys. But whatever happens, doubt they'll forget to record a scene again."

Oh.

Tony cocked his head to the side, considering the man before him.

Gibbs took a step closer, and squinted his eyes a bit. "What do you mean, wasting our time?"

DiNozzo offered an easy smile. "Just trying to run an efficient investigation."

Gibbs snorted, "Efficient my ass. You're after something."

"Why Gibbs, whatever could you mean?"

"Whatever, DiNozzo. Hate to waste any more of your precious time standing around. Let's go back in there – you can pretend you backed me down. See if you can coax any scene details out of them now."

"You're staying in the room as a reminder of the monster under the bed waiting to eat their toes if they don't remember?"

Gibbs shrugged, and went back into the room.

Tony decided he had better stop skipping entire nights of sleep if he was going to continue working with Gibbs.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they had all the useful information they were going to get from the patrolmen. It wasn't much. They now knew the body had been positioned such that it was more likely dumped via the alley entrance, not the restaurant's. No items were found on top of the body, though it remained unclear what was immediately underneath.

Gibbs and the young detective had fallen into an easy pattern – DiNozzo coaxing, kidding, sometimes biting, sarcastic, but briefly so. Gibbs stayed silent until he felt a quick bolt of pure intimidation would focus wandering minds.

It worked very well.

Still, Gibbs sensed DiNozzo was subtly trying to work the conversation around to some point of particular interest to him. Something about the state of the body. This line of questioning suited his own purposes nicely, so he let it be.

He could tell DiNozzo was frustrated at the end of the meeting, and didn't think it was solely because of the rookies' poor memories. Whatever his silent question was, it hadn't been answered.

As the detective escorted the two cops out of the room, Gibbs pulled out his cell phone and called his own probies.

"Gibbs, we're at the station, waiting for you in the lobby. I've got – "

Gibbs hung up. That was useful, he didn't have to wait for them to arrive per the orders he had been about to issue.

"DiNozzo!" He barked as the man in question reentered the room.

Eyebrow raised, he returned, "Don't expect me to 'sir' you."

Though it was said in a light tone, Gibbs detected an undercurrent of vehement seriousness and again wondered what this kid's ties to the military might be. Letting it go for the moment, he stood and started back towards the station's lobby. "I really don't. Come on, gotta meet up with my people."

"I was wondering where you stashed them."

"They stashed themselves last night. Better have gotten some damn work done." The lead agent's face darkened.

Neither man even considered that given the time Gibbs' agents had left the scene, it would have been perfectly logical for a normal person to have just gotten out of bed.

Thankfully for all involved, the agents had been up and working for several hours already.

"Gibbs, we got Collins' records from the school," Greene offered, and passed over a file.

"Got the crime scene photos developed, and a preliminary report drafted up," Wagner chimed in, passing his own file.

They both looked at him for praise. He ignored them.

Turning to DiNozzo, he started to make curt introductions, then realized he was only mostly certain their names were Wagner and Greene.

In his phone he just had them entered as #1 and #2.

"Boys, this is Detective DiNozzo with Baltimore PD. He'll be working the case with us. DiNozzo, probies." Even with his attention already buried in the vic's school records, he still caught the grin the damn detective shot at him. Did he suspect Gibbs' wasn't sure of his own people's names? Impossible…

Besides, there were far more important names to remember. Victims, suspects, persons of interest. No reason to waste the brain space on those two.

DiNozzo stepped forward to greet the two men. "Anthony DiNozzo, Homicide. And you are?"

The slightly older, slightly more senior of the two spoke up first, "Tyler Greene. Been on Gibbs' team ten weeks."

Ha, see! Greene. Gibbs snorted and continued reading the file.

"Rich Wadusky. Been on Gibbs' team for two and a half weeks."

Wadusky? Gibbs spared a look for the newer newbie. He didn't know anyone named Wadusky.

Come to think of it, this Wadusky guy didn't look all that familiar. Was Wagner the last guy? What happened to him?

Thoroughly annoyed now, he returned to scanning the report, holding it further from his face. His eyes were just tired from the fight last night. He damn well didn't need glasses. Screw what Ducky said.

DiNozzo continued to chat with the probies. Gibbs kept one ear on their conversation, hoping the detective would steer the conversation towards whatever he'd been trying to learn since the night before.

Grunting, he spoke aloud, "This record's pretty thin. You talk to any of his instructors, friends, people he knew on campus?"

Both shook their head in the negative. Greene elaborated, "Weren't sure you'd want us to. We can drive over there and do the interviews today." He looked hopeful.

Gibbs couldn't bring himself to trust them not to miss something important. "Go back to HQ." Greene's face fell. "I'll send you a list of names to run. Check in with Ducky and Abby, see if they have anything or need anything. Run Collins' financials and phone records."

"Yes, boss," they chorused morosely, and immediately turned to leave.

DiNozzo watched them trudge back towards the parking lot with a thoughtful expression underneath his continued annoying smile. "Do your people always come in matched sets like that?"

Gibbs considered. The two did have the same dark coloring, same height, similar features. He hadn't noticed before. "Last couple of agents were a tall guy and a short gal."

"Did you trust them any more than you trust these two?"

Half-shrugging, Gibbs grudgingly admitted, "Guy was okay."

The detective waited, as though expecting more details. Gibbs turned back to the file.

"Strange that they introduced themselves in how many weeks they'd survived you." That shit-eating grin was back on the kid's face, the same one he pulled last night when Gibbs' first saw his badge glint in the streetlight and called him on it.

It was supremely irritating.

Gibbs leveled a long, serious look at his temporary partner. The exhausted, battered, barely able to speak DiNozzo of overnight hours had seemed more tolerable. Had he made a mistake in who he chose to work with?

The detective's gaze steadily matched Gibbs' own.

Traffic in the station house – especially near the entrance, where they were standing – had picked up considerably. People walked around them in a slow stream. Someone clapped Tony on the shoulder in greeting; a uniformed officer called hello to him from across the room. Two teenage girls were wailing about their parents being called. A junkie in an oversized navy coat darted glances at everyone. A man in a dirty pink gorilla suit was brought in and handcuffed to a chair.

Gibbs saw this and more out of the periphery of his eyesight as he continued his visual investigation of DiNozzo's character. But the man's expression had gone blank, unreadable. A handy ability in their line of work. He continued to meet Gibbs' eyes with a patient stillness he had not seemed capable of mere moments before.

This wasn't getting them anywhere. Gibbs thrust the files into DiNozzo's hands, and was rewarded with a brief glimpse of greedy need. Yeah, the kid wanted to know something alright. He didn't tear open the file, but did pull it in firmly to his side. "You going to the academy by yourself?"

"I'll drive, you can read the files in the car."

The drive there would provide another interesting little test of the detective's character.


	5. Chapter 5

Tony was used to denying himself certain temptations – rash actions, displays of intense true emotion, saying what was really on his mind. He was grateful for that practice now, as he resisted the urge to pour over the case file before they even made it to the car.

His whole body was buzzing.

He followed Gibbs to a newish Dodge sedan and got into the passenger seat without quarrel. Having to focus on driving right now when he wanted to be reading would be torturous anyway.

He glanced at the agent's face as they backed out of the parking spot – no radio on, he should have figured that.

Gibbs looked mildly irritated. The man often looked irritated to some degree, at least so far in Tony's experience. It didn't seem to be a front most of the time. More like the people around him were holding him back, never up to his standards.

Poor NCIS probies.

He had pulled out a nice effect in the interview with Baltimore's own rookies, though. Still…

What had he been planning on doing if Tony hadn't called him out?

The detective's thoughts were cut off by a sudden feeling of nausea deep in his gut. It suddenly felt like his stomach had parted ways from the rest of his internal organs. His head swam, eyes unable to focus. He lost his sense of balance, which was never a good sign when sitting down.

Shit, not _another_ concussion…but if it was a result of last night, it would have shown itself before now. So what –

His thoughts were interrupted by a blaring car horn.

Then another, followed by Gibbs letting out a loud yawn.

It was lunch hour, and the still-snowy roads were packed with cars that slipped and slid slowly along the busy city streets. Gibbs was taking advantage of the extra space smart, sane drivers were leaving between their vehicle and the one in front of them by zipping in and out of lanes with a speed that seemed impossible on current road conditions.

The car slid as they changed lanes again; Gibbs controlled the slide calmly, inserted himself in the right lane, and slingshot them into a right turn.

Tony opened his mouth to comment, but all that came out was an embarrassing squeak.

Damn elbow to the throat last night. Yeah. Had to be the cause.

Clearing his throat, he tried again, and kept it short and simple. "In a hurry?"

"Nah."

DiNozzo plastered himself against his seat, bracing his right arm against the passenger door, trying to lessen the death-defying drops his insides kept taking without his outsides. Seatbelts usually made him feel secure, but this one wasn't locking in place as the car jerked around.

"You know you're going the wrong way to get to the academy?"

"Not going to the academy first."

Unaware that his eyes were huge, Tony continued trying to find a better way to brace himself. He planted his feet firmly and tried to stay in one place as Gibbs executed another turn.

Wincing as his knee popped and started to give, he lost traction and slid up onto the drink console.

This was definitely one example of when shiny, slippery leather seats were not ideal.

Scooting back into his seat, he wrapped his left arm around his ribs to steady them, and tried to brace for whatever would come next with just his sound leg.

Suddenly, Gibbs slowed down. Not to anything approaching cautious or legal driving speeds, but at least enough so that the horizon reappeared and Tony managed to regain his balance.

Fighting a sigh of relief, Tony shot another glance at his insane new partner, who looked back at him with a horribly faked expression of innocence.

Tony narrowed his eyes marginally, then forced his features into a pleasant smile. So Gibbs wanted to play more games, did he? Fine by him.

Actually, his next move seemed quite simple. Elegant, even.

Humming to himself, DiNozzo finally placed where they were going. "Back to the scene, Gibbs?"

"Wanted to see it in the daylight." Gibbs tossed him a suspicious glance, as though he knew the detective was up to something.

Which suited Tony just fine. A little well-deserved paranoia would be appropriate payback for the unexpected carnival ride.

One thing you could say for the NCIS agent's method of driving – it did shave time off of a commute. Gibbs was already parking the car.

The crime scene now sported one lone cop standing vigil over the roped off area, yellow tape ends flapping raggedly in the brisk wind that would not abate.

Getting out of the car, Tony was pleased he didn't sway. He stood firmly on the ground, near enough to the car in case he needed something to casually lean on.

Gibbs exited the car as well, and flipped the collar of his jacket up before blowing warm air into his hands. Neither of them were well-equipped for the sudden plunge in temperature the morning had brought.

Glancing over at the uniform, Tony was glad to see that the man was much more prepared for the weather, wearing what appeared to be multiple, layered coats, big chopper mittens and high boots.

Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the alley, now unrecognizable as the same scene from last night. Not only did fresh snow cover everything, it bounced light around and made the dingy, narrow ally look quaint.

Gibbs walked around the car and towards the back entrance of the restaurant. "Stupid snow," he muttered.

Oddly cheered, Tony followed, case files still held tightly to his side.

It was a useless exercise, but one both men silently acknowledged as necessary in their process. They wouldn't find any evidence that had survived the rookies, Gibbs' searching gaze the night before, and the weather. They couldn't even get an accurate feel for how the area would have felt a day or two before. But they could walk the scene, note the surrounding buildings and business, and stop where the body had rested the night before.

It was steadying, centering. Whomever he was fighting or sparring with, whatever station politics might be at play, whatever underlying motivations Gibbs may have, at heart, they were investigating a murder. And Tony would not disappoint Keith Collins.

* * *

Gibbs didn't like working with other people. He could respect some of his fellow investigator's skills, and certainly those of the specialists he knew he needed. His forensic scientist, his ME, occasionally a profiler or tech geek. People who had a set field that they were devoted to, he understood using that, especially once he'd found someone he was confident knew what the hell they were doing.

But even then, he didn't like relying on their timetables. Science took too long. And all of his specialists worked on other cases, meaning at times he was relegated to waiting, knowing that nothing was actively being done on that front.

Working with probies was grating. There were a never-ending stream of them, and he didn't have the time to delve into their abilities and affinities. None of them had ever lasted more than six months, excepting Burley. And just when he started to get used to having Burley around, the guy left.

So-called partners were the worst. They thought they were specialists in their own right, infallible, equal. They grandstanded and botched interviews and in many cases needed just as much hand-holding as a probie.

It wasn't as if he was unable to work as a team. Hell, he was a Marine. But working together on that kind of team was different. Everyone had shared experiences, shared training. Usually you moved with a small unit that you knew well. People had their areas of expertise, and you didn't go telling them what to do in those areas. Everyone was working towards the same mission.

Here, it was a crapshoot as to what training each policeman or agent came through. And while the overall goal of solving cases could be considered shared, each person was an individual, working towards their own caseload, their own personal missions, with varying degrees of talent and instinct.

It saved a lot of time if you just did everything yourself. No guessing as to whether or not it was done right, or done at all.

He glanced over at DiNozzo, who was extremely pale, but still managing to read the preliminary case files as Gibbs navigated the highway. Though he was driving his usual speed, he did try to avoid making sharp movements that would toss the kid around.

Playing with him earlier had been enjoyable, but he didn't like the subtle signs that indicated he was provoking injuries from the night before. It was easier to back off , too, because the way the detective's arm had wrapped securely around his ribs and he shifted to protect one particular knee led Gibbs to believe that the younger man had taken more damage in the altercation than he had himself.

As well he should. Street brawlers should never come out on top of trained Marines.

Snorting, he nodded to himself as he sped along.

Still, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that the detective didn't get the sleep he'd said he had.

Shaking it off, he reminded himself that DiNozzo was not his problem. Gibbs would solve the case, get the hell out of dodge, and go back to his normal method of doing things.

Annoyed, he barked, "You find what you've been looking for in there?"

In an absent-minded tone, DiNozzo replied, "Yes, thanks," and continued reading.

It was infuriating to Gibbs that he couldn't tell exactly what part or page of the file had calmed the tension in the young detective. Not calmed, really…focused. Whatever DiNozzo had been looking for, he had found. He was wholly invested now, as was evident from his intent scrutiny of the papers and photos before him even in the face of Gibbs' driving, the alert look in his eyes, the set of his shoulders.

Several minutes later, Tony finally closed the folders and looked up. "So how do you want to play the academy interviews?"

"You stick with me, you follow my lead."

"Okay."

"Okay?" Gibbs tossed an incredulous look at DiNozzo.

"Okay." Tony neatly tucked the case files between the side of his seat and the center console, and leaned back in the car with his legs stretched out. Hands loosely clasped in front of him, he then proceeded to apparently fall asleep.

Gibbs silently assured himself that the smile he found on his face did not mean he was amused. He was just imagining all the different ways he could wake the detective up.


	6. Chapter 6

Twenty minutes later they passed through the academy gates without incident. As Gibbs parked the car, DiNozzo moved into a lazy stretch. He opened the car door and half-rolled out, continuing his stretch as he stood.

Gibbs took stock of the other man, and noted his movements were fluid again, and his eyes bright and sharp. Satisfied, Gibbs turned and stalked towards the administrative building.

Tony followed, hands in pockets. He looked younger here in the daylight, surrounded by college kids. He could fit right in if he chose to. But there was an underlying sense of wariness under the nonchalance, as if he were waiting for something unpleasant to occur.

They passed a group of students hurrying by, discussing a point from an engineering lecture they'd just attended. Three younger students ambled in the opposite direction, animatedly debating next year's potential football roster. A serious-looking young woman with a stack of books looking to weigh more than she did herself exited the admin building as they approached and cast a sly smile at both of them.

DiNozzo relaxed fractionally at each encounter.

Eyebrow raised, Gibbs was about to ask Tony what he'd expected when they were interrupted by a neat, fair-haired man of middling age.

"Special Agent Gibbs?" At Gibbs' nod, the man continued. "Commander Partant. PMP – linguistics, primarily. Superintendant Hotch asked me to walk you around. He'll make himself available if you need to speak with him, but he didn't know the Midshipman well, just by name and face."

DiNozzo spoke up without introducing himself. "Is that usual for a first classman?"

"Extremely. There are over four thousand students on campus, five hundred faculty and another several hundred staff members."

Gibbs interjected, "Why does the superintendant know Collins at all?"

"He was double majoring in Chinese and Arabic. Had a gift for languages."

DiNozzo clarified, "So he was a protégé of yours?"

"Yes, something like that. But he was already better than I am." The commander unbent enough to offer a small shrug. "Natural talent. I did spend more time with him than any other instructor."

"General impressions?"

Snapping straight again at Gibbs' commanding tone, the commander paused to think for a minute before replying. "Intellectual more than physical. Friendly, no beefs with other students that I knew about. Curious kid. Mostly happy – or at least not depressed. He often seemed absorbed, distracted, but in an academic kind of way, like he was always working a problem in his head."

The straighter Partant stood, the more Tony slouched. "So he was on leave this weekend?"

"Yes. I don't know what his plans were, or where he was headed. I believe most of his friends are on base. He doesn't have any family."

This wasn't new information; both men had read in Collins' file that the boy's father skipped out when he was little and was later killed in a motorcycle accident, and his mother died two years ago of cancer. No immediate relatives. No next of kin listed to notify.

"Log shows he signed out on his own?" Gibbs asked gruffly.

"Yes. He left solo in his own vehicle."

Tony had been inching closer to the man, and now stood well within his personal space. "You know his friends well? Who's his best pal?"

"I know his group of friends, more or less, but I'm not aware that he had any one friend closer than the others, or any romantic interests on or off campus."

DiNozzo scratched at the side of a scrape on his face, breaking off a small scab and letting it fall to the ground. He moved another half inch closer to their interviewee. "Hobbies? A boy has to have hobbies."

"He was very involved in his studies. Spent a lot of time in the library, reading popular literature in the languages he was learning to improve his skills. I…think he liked to go to the movies sometimes."

Either the Collins kid was an a-typical college student, or Partant was not a man with his finger on the pulse of the school. Or student, in this case. Apparently deciding the same, Tony wandered away to study a campus map posted on the side of the building.

Gibbs was also just about done with the bland commander for the moment. "Show us his room, then gather up the Midshipman's friends and any classmates or teachers who saw him the night he left. We'll interview them one by one once we're done in his room."

Partant snapped around at the order, and led them over several buildings to a brick dormitory. Collins' room was right inside the door on the first level.

DiNozzo went straight inside without waiting for an invitation. After arranging where to meet the commander and then dismissing the man, Gibbs stopped to note the layout – no neighbors to the east, similar room on the west side. Communal head across the hall. No cameras.

Entering the boy's room, he found DiNozzo taking photos with a small silver digital camera. As Collins had left campus Friday night and not returned according to security logs, it was unlikely this room was a crime scene. But Gibbs approved, especially when he saw Tony capturing images of the small ads, posters and leaflets pinned to the large bulletin board.

"Find anything interesting?"

"Nothing unusual yet." DiNozzo moved to take some shots of the closet before pulling on gloves he produced from his jacket, then starting to rifle through the pockets of Collins' clothes.

Gibbs stripped the bed, thoroughly searching between mattress and box spring, feeling the pillows for hidden objects, and searching underneath for anything stored or taped up to the bottom of the platform.

He found nothing, not even dust.

Moving to the desk, he glanced over at DiNozzo, who was now crawling around the closet floor, sticking his hands inside shoes and flipping them over to examine the bottoms.

Gibbs was itching to bark an order in the detective's direction, but he refrained – so far, Tony was showing solid skills.

The desk held nothing unexpected, nothing personal. Just school papers, many of which were partially in Chinese or Arabic. Gathering those into a separate pile to have someone else take a look at later, he eyed Collins' laptop distrustfully.

"You know anything about computers?"

Tony looked up from his investigation of the wall vent. "A little, but not a lot." He came over and opened the lid of the little black computer, then pressed one circular button.

Apparently it was the power button, as lights came on and the screen began to show an image.

Gibbs peered at the screen as Tony typed something, frowned, typed something else in, then picked up the machine, running his hands around each side.

"It's password-protected. I don't have the skills to crack it, and I don't see any handily-hidden paper reminders tucked away. Did you find anything that looked like a list of passwords in the desk?"

"Nope." Gibbs watched as DiNozzo checked the desk for hidden compartments. When the younger man finally gave up his search with an annoyed sigh, Gibbs rested a hand on his shoulder in solidarity. Technology sucked.

Tony went completely still.

Most people who didn't like to be touched unexpectedly jumped, or jerked back, or stiffened. Maybe slapped the offender away. Going completely still without tensing wasn't a natural reaction. It was trained, or learned.

With a growing sense of unease, Gibbs searched the other man's eyes. But he didn't see any fear or anger, not even any distrust. Just caution. DiNozzo was waiting to see what the gesture would turn into.

The kid had been watchful last night, and observant throughout the day. What was it about this place that made him cautious?

Gibbs clumsily turned his light squeeze into a shoulder pat, then offered, "We can pack it up and take it back to the Navy Yard. Abby's good with computers."

The instant Gibbs' hand was removed, Tony's face took on his previous easy expression. "Abby, of the famous Abby and Ducky you mentioned before?"

"Abby's my forensic scientist. Ducky's the medical examiner for NCIS. You'll meet them soon enough."

Tony brightened. "Yeah? We're going to your headquarters?"

"Yeah, DiNozzo, we're going to the Navy Yard after we leave here."

Tony grinned. "I've never been inside a fed's building before. We've worked with the FBI and ATF on cases, but they would show up at the station, or meet us on scene." He paused, "Or avoid us altogether, more often. Hey, will you give me a tour?"

"I look like a tour guide to you, DiNozzo?"

"No, not really. They usually have bad hats on."

Gibbs stared at the kid in disbelief for a full minute while he chattered on about some college trip to Venice. He and Ducky ought to get along just fine.

But Ducky's rambles were usually semi-logical progressions from a point at hand. He verbalized his free-association in the form of very long stories that often connected to other very, _very_ long stories.

Tony, on the other hand, had just started talking and was jumping from point to point with no discernable connections. His mood, body language, tone of voice – all had changed rapidly in the last three minutes from intense investigator to paragon of stillness to annoying, excited kid.

"And the girls – oh, you should've seen the girls, Gibbs. Not an English speaker in the lot, but you don't always need language to communicate, you know what I mean?"

"Shut up, DiNozzo."

"Come on, Gibbs, you gotta live a little!" But after uttering this inane comment, the detective fell silent and continued his search. He had moved from exploring for loose carpeting and wall boards to removing the light fixture in the ceiling.

Tony hadn't been prone to excessive chattering before this. Was that just due to the blow to his throat messing with his voice, or was this display for a specific purpose? He _had_ diffused the momentary tension almost instantly… And DiNozzo was no ditz, despite how he had sounded for a minute there.

Tony finished checking the opening into the ceiling for hidden treasure, and checking the fixture itself. He replaced it, stepped back down off of the desk chair, and brushed flakes of ceiling tile off of his shirt. "I'm done, unless you've got something specific you want me to go through."

Gibbs took another look around the room, but couldn't see anything they'd missed. Just seemed strange there was so little here. After four years, the Collins kid ought to have accumulated some amount of shit to sort through.

DiNozzo's gazed followed' Gibbs'. "Seem strange to you how few personal belongings he has?"

Gibbs lost an internal battle and let a small smile show on his face. "Yep. Come on, DiNozzo, we're done here."

He led the way to a classroom two buildings away where Partant stood stiffly at the front of the room and twenty students sat clustered together in the back, all talking at once in hushed tones. Their harsh whispers faded to silence as Gibbs looked them over. "I'm Special Agent Gibbs with NCIS, this is Detective DiNozzo of the Baltimore PD. We'll be taking you to the classroom next door one at a time to ask a few standard questions. Starting with…you." He pointed to one of the four girls in the pack, a petite thing with a cap of white-blonde hair.

She rose willingly and quietly followed them to the next room. Gibbs gestured her to a chair, flipping another one around so he could sit facing her. Tony settled himself off to the side, a few feet away.

Consciously gentling his voice, Gibbs asked, "Name?"

"Jennifer Seward, sir."

"You don't have to sir me, Ms. Seward." Gibbs saw Tony raise an eyebrow at that. Apparently the detective hadn't believed him earlier.

"You don't have to Ms. Seward me, Agent Gibbs," the girl said with a straight face.

"Jennifer, what was your connection to Keith Collins?"

"He was a friend, and a classmate. I'd known him for four years."

"And?"

"And…he was a good student. Friendly, not shy but not a strutting ass like some of the guys our age. He had trouble with science courses sometimes, but he'd trade tutoring in any language for help. He must have spoken at least six languages. I didn't spend a lot of time with him one on one, but he was always around, always out with the group, you know? He was a really good guy." She looked sad, but nowhere near tears, thank god. Gibbs hated a crying female.

"Was he close to anyone in particular?"

"He had a lot of friends across campus…I don't think he had a best friend, at least not that I knew about. He dated a girl named Emily two years ago, but they broke it off when Emily graduated. Nothing dramatic."

"Do you know where he was headed on Friday?"

"No, I don't. There was a group of guys that went to play laser tag the same night, but he didn't go with them."

"Did he go into the city often?"

"I think he did…at least, he was usually gone Friday nights."

Tony spoke up. "Do you know where he spent his holidays? Who he stayed with when he wasn't on campus?"

"I assume with his family, or other friends? He grew up around Balitmore."

Neither man chose to inform her that Collins had no family.

The interview continued, with Gibbs controlling most of the questions, but DiNozzo freely inserting his own on occasion.

After Jennifer, there was Patrick Givens. Then Robert Riddick, Sean Falston, Sasha Deltina…it took far less time than it should have to interview a round twenty students.

Their answers were all along the same lines. Keith was a good friend, but not a close friend. He was reliable, well-liked, intelligent. They picked up small details on where he liked to eat, what kinds of movies he liked, how much he hated reality television.

No one had a good idea where he went Friday nights. No one knew he had no family left, where he spent his vacations and holidays, who he spoke with on a regular basis outside of the academy.

With each interview, DiNozzo's face drew further and further shut. He still fronted an easygoing, open expression, but Gibbs could see the shutters closing behind the green eyes, bit by bit.

It was an odd reaction to a series of uneventful interviews.

When the last student had left the room, Gibbs waited for Tony to speak. Finally, after a long silence, DiNozzo said, "I don't think he was being secretive. I get the feeling he just didn't talk about himself much."

Gibbs continued his noncommittal look in the detective's direction. He was inclined to agree, but wanted to see what else the other man would offer up.

"I don't like any of them for it. No motive."

"Might just not have found the motive yet."

"Yeah…just doesn't feel right. I don't think any of them are responsible." Tony looked like he was bracing for something.

Gibbs stood. "I agree."

A startled DiNozzo followed several paces behind as Gibbs headed back to the car.


	7. Chapter 7

Less than an hour later, Tony watched Gibbs sign him into NCIS headquarters. The security guards were giving them both strange glances.

Tony decided to give him a friendly little poke. "You don't bring friends home with you much, do you?"

Gibbs ignored him.

The guards' glances became pointed looks of curiosity.

As Tony placed his weapon, backup weapon and loose change in the dish to the side of the metal detector and stepped through, Gibbs scowled at him.

Already having learned that this could mean anything in Gibbs-speak, DiNozzo settled for patting his hands down the front of his shirt. "What, did I drool on myself? It's just so relaxing having someone else drive. Sorry I keep falling asleep on you."

Gibbs tossed a look to the dish. "No knife."

Tony rearmed. "I wasn't planning on cutting through anything today."

Gibbs surged forward and jammed a finger into the detective's chest. "Always. Carry. A knife."

Letting some of the famous DiNozzo charm seep through, Tony clapped Gibbs on the shoulder and smiled broadly. "Good talk." He brushed Gibbs aside and waggled his fingers at the guards, now staring with open mouths.

So far the Navy Yard was proving a nice distraction from the depressing interviews at the academy.

Where no one had cried.

Collins was well-liked, but he'd be forgotten in a year. Maybe less. He had made no deep impressions on any of his friends.

His funeral would be full, but full of dry eyes.

Tony's own would be the same way, whenever it happened.

Sidling away from these unsettling thoughts, Tony concentrated again on his surroundings, and on Gibbs, who was obviously long-familiar with this place. He strode briskly to an elevator in the corner and pushed the down button.

"Your squad room is in the basement?"

"Going down to check with Ducky first. He should have something by now."

"Does he always get to your cases so fast? We're lucky if we get a report back in 48 hours in Baltimore."

"Doesn't usually take him this long." With a little smirk, Gibbs stepped off the elevator and proceeded through a set of sliding glass doors, announcing himself to the room's occupant with, "What've you got for me, Duck?"

"Ah, Jethro," came the faintly accented response from an older, shortish figure bent over an autopsy table, intent upon removing some disgustingly gray organ. "I have no surprises for you. This boy was in good health until his untimely demise. Cause of death was strangulation." He placed the organ on a stainless steel scale, then removed it to a basin and took up a pen to note the weight down.

He hadn't removed his gloves. Tony made a mental note never to borrow a pen from autopsy. Any autopsy. Ever.

"I'm sure you noticed this boy's throat was smashed beyond repair. It was not, however, the cause of his death. Most of the damage occurred post-mortem."

Gibbs asked, "Is it possible the damage came from the officers who tried to resuscitate him?"

"No, I shouldn't think so. The throat was crushed purposefully, with great force and a probable repetitive grinding motion. The force applied was much larger than any accident-prone would-be rescuer could possibly have inflicted." Ducky turned around and started when he caught sight of Tony.

After a startled moment, he glanced sharply at Gibbs. "And who is this young man? And what have you two been up to, my old friend?" Stripping his gloves off and removing his mask, the doctor walked over to Gibbs and took the agent's chin between his thumb and forefinger, moving Gibbs' head from side to side and inspecting the bruises and cuts.

"Awh, hell, Duck," Gibbs jerked his head away like an ornery horse and glared. "It's nothing."

Sensing no introduction in the works, Tony offered his own. "Anthony DiNozzo, Baltimore homicide. Nice to meet you, doc."

Ducky's scrutiny shifted from Gibbs to Tony, and he walked over and repeated his action. Tony cast a somewhat panicked expression towards Gibbs. Was he supposed to stand still while the freaking medical examiner examined him? He tried to back away but the grasp on his chin was stronger than he expected.

"I see you've shared whatever scrape Jethro has recently been in. I don't suppose you'll be any more forthcoming than he will be with the details?" The ME reached his left hand up to pull down the collar of Tony's shirt an inch and examine the bruises. "What the devil's happened to your neck? That looks horribly painful."

Another semi-desperate glance to Gibbs showed there would be no help from that area of the room. Gibbs looked pleased to no longer be the focus of attention. Tony fell back upon old habits.

He slowly stretched a full smile across his face, and tilted his head enough to make eye contact with the shorter man. Eyes dancing, he forced himself to relax into the doctor's hold to prove he was not uncomfortable.

Though he was. Very much so.

Lightening the tone of his voice, he tried, "Nothing much to describe, doc. We were both protecting the scene, had to get a little physical. Nothing we couldn't handle."

Ducky let go of his chin but continued inspecting the bruise on this throat.

Suddenly, Gibbs was right beside them. "Bastard elbowed him in the throat, Ducky. He couldn't talk for a while last night."

What the hell? He tried again, this time with a low hum of half-laughter. "You should see the other guy. I'm fine!"

His low hum turned into an indignant squawk when Gibbs' hand came up and smacked him on the back of the head. "Jesus, Gibbs!"

"Don't say you're fine when you're not fine."

"I am fine!"

"By what standard?"

"I'm as fine as you are!"

"You couldn't talk last night, and your knee's been bothering you today."

"Your knee almost gave out on you last night."

"We're not talking about me."

"That's funny, it seems to me we _are_."

They were interrupted by the sound of the doctor's delighted laughter.

Tony fixed his smile back in place.

Still chuckling, the doctor offered a hand. "Doctor Donald Mallard. Ducky to my friends. And I quite insist we be friends. I think it shall be most entertaining."

DiNozzo accepted the handshake. Glancing at Gibbs' supremely irritated expression, he tried to steer them back on course. "Ducky, any idea what he was strangled with?"

"Judging from the bruising, something wider than a cord. My guess would be a belt, or something of that width."

Gibbs scowled and turned towards the door. "Gotta talk to Abby."

Tony ran a hand through his hair, smoothing down where Gibbs had smacked. With a real and therefore more tentative smile, he acknowledged, "Nice to meet you Ducky."

"And you, dear boy. And you," followed him out of the room.

At least dealing with a female lab tech should be easier.

* * *

Tony caught up to Gibbs on the other side of the stairwell door. He jogged up the stairs behind the other man, but made sure to stay to his right and keep off pace.

He didn't want anyone thinking he was following in their footsteps.

It was irritating that he found the scene in the morgue confusing. He considered blowing it off, or making light of it. Crossing over the line into intentionally annoying, perhaps, until he regained complete mental balance. But he was interested to see what a no-nonsense guy like Gibbs would do when faced with some direct confrontation.

As the neared the top of the flight, Tony put on a small burst of speed and sped by Gibbs at the last moment, using his momentum to reach out his left hand and slam the heavy door shut just as the agent started to open it.

He stayed like that for a moment, stock still and waiting to see if Gibbs would jump into action as he had the night before.

DiNozzo wouldn't start a fight with a fellow LEO, but he would certainly participate in one once it was started.

In self-defense, of course.

But Gibbs didn't move. They stood there for a moment, Gibbs with his hand on the door handle but not pulling, and Tony just in front of him, back to Gibbs, hand covering the door and jam two feet above where the other man's hand rested.

The stairs weren't steep or many, and both men were in good shape, but the echo of their breaths could still be heard bouncing off the thick cement walls.

So he wasn't going to start a fight here at his home base, when he knew who he was dealing with, huh? Maybe a little prodding would move the guy's feet. "What the hell was that?" Tony turned his head just enough to cast a dark look at Gibbs, his tone deep and quiet.

Gibbs eyes flashed – he _was_ itching for a fight. But he replied with, "What the hell was what?"

"You think it's amusing to pass me into the clutches of your quack? To watch me be manhandled by a mortician whose hands smell like death?"

Gibbs snarled and pushed forward, forcing Tony to turn to face him. With his face an inch from Tony's, he growled, "Ducky is no quack."

"If it walks like a duck…"

Gibbs slammed his fist into the door, inches from Tony's head. "The nickname is based on _Mallard_. And he's no fucking mortician, he's a medical examiner. A doctor. One with years of experience as an army medic. Treating _living_ people."

Interesting. Gibbs seemed very protective over the older man. Were they actually friends? Tony's anger dissipated as he considered the new information, but he drew a sneer across his face as he tried another verbal poke out of curiosity. "Yeah, and I'm supposed to believe you jerked away from him and set him on me because you were so concerned for my wellbeing?"

Gibbs backed away about a foot. The rage in his own face drained away, replaced by irritation and something that looked like pity. But that didn't make any sense…

"Hell, I don't need him fussing over me. I actually am fine. You're the one with a purple and black neck."

Tony blinked, though his face gave away no other sign of the mild surprise he felt. That was not the response he'd anticipated.

Gibbs tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowed. "What were you expecting at the academy?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Why'd you have a bug up your butt the whole time we were there?"

"You're mistaken."

"Rarely."

"What makes you so sure?"

"You know exactly what, DiNozzo."

Shit, he did. But he hadn't thought Gibbs was paying enough attention to him to pick up on the hints of unease that had slipped through. As self-punishment for allowing the slip, he told the truth. "Spent some years at a military boarding school."

One of Gibbs' eyebrows shot up. "You a handful as a kid, DiNozzo?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

"That's not an answer."

"Funny, it's the answer you're getting."

Gibbs rolled his eyes and advanced upon the door again. "Come on, dumbass." Yanking the door open and out of Tony's now non-resisting hand, Gibbs shoved the detective through, propelling him across the hall and down one door to the left.

There was a deafening noise emanating from the nearest room. Gibbs paused as though fortifying himself, then sighed and walked through the door.

Tony entered as well, realizing as he did that the horrible sound was music. Sort of. More like wailing and screaming set to really bad heavy metal instrumentals, and turned up way too loud, but still – music. Probably.

Suddenly, there was silence. Tony spotted Gibbs with his hand on a stereo; he must have turned the noise off.

"Gibbs!" A tall girl with black pigtails swung with her hands on her hips to mock glare at the agent. Her skin was pale, and her liberal use of eyeliner oddly suited her. At first Tony mistook the skirt she was wearing for a checked schoolgirl-like number, but as he inched closer he realized the "checks" were a pattern made up of tiny, differently-colored skulls. She spun with grace, despite the massive black platform boots on her feet.

Tony edged a little closer and she finally noticed him. "Gibbs, you brought a visitor!"

Gruffy, introductions were made. "Tony DiNozzo, Baltimore homicide. Tony, this is Abby. Don't piss her off."

Abby bounced – bounced? In platforms? – closer to Gibbs, eyes narrowed. "Gibbs, what happened to you? It looks like someone clocked you a good one. No one told me you got into a fight!"

She spun to Tony and opened her mouth to ask a question, but suddenly her eyes slitted dangerously and she stomped forward and peered into his face.

Grabbing his arm, she dragged Tony over to Gibbs, then positioned him like a mannequin so that he was standing at a forty-five degree angle to Gibbs – partially facing the agent, and partially facing Abby.

She walked behind Gibbs and grabbed his arm, holding it out in front of the two of them, towards Tony's face.

Dropping the arm and walking back around Gibbs, Abby pointed a long finger at Tony, then at Gibbs' face, then back at Tony again. "What do you know about this?"

Gibbs spoke up, "Abs, there was a little scuffle near the scene last night. No big deal."

"Little scuffle? My ass, Gibbs. And don't try to play it off like you two got into a fight on the same side. I'm not stupid. I know you caused that pattern of damage," at this she pointed at Tony, "so don't try to pretend like he didn't cause yours."

"Abby, I am not _damaged._"

She ignored him, and glared at DiNozzo. "Why are you in my lab? You should be locked up."

Tony tried flashing a smile.

Abby growled.

"He started it?" Tony gestured towards Gibbs and switched to his innocent little boy smile.

Abby lunged towards him, stopped only by Gibbs' hand on her arm.

She was actually a little scary. Like a bunny with fangs. DiNozzo backed up a few steps, hands raised in surrender, smile working furiously. "Well, he did."

"If he started it, you deserved it. Gibbs would _never_ start a fight otherwise."

Wow, there was some ferociously serious hero worship in this girl's eyes. Was there a Cult of Gibbs? If so, this gothy chick was definitely the ringleader.

Forcefully but not loudly, Gibbs commanded, "What've you got, Abby?"

She crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at DiNozzo, then turned to report. "I got nothing, Gibbs. All the trash you sent in was trash. Fingerprints correspond to the restaurant staff mostly, though there's like hundreds of other prints scattered all around."

"Murder weapon?"

She scooted over to a computer hooked up to multiple monitors and pulled up an image of what looked like dead neon slugs. "As you can see, there are small pieces of leather embedded in Collins' neck."

Tony was glad to see that Gibbs, also, was still watching Abby herself, and not the extreme enhancement of the leathery slugs on screen.

"Ducky was right, the most likely origin of these particles is a men's leather belt. If you bring me a belt, I can match it to this sample, but I don't have enough of a sample to determine the exact belt."

Impressive. Tony wasn't sure if Baltimore forensics would have been able to pull such small fragments out of a victim. And it certainly would've taken longer than a few hours to get the results.

Abby whirled around. "Impressed? You should be. Team Gibbs is nothing to sneeze at. You better watch your step, mister. Misbehave and he'll take you down."

He was torn between scooting behind Gibbs for cover and wanting to smile at the sincerity emanating from the scary scientist. It was nice to see that kind of loyalty. Too bad she hated him already.

"Abby!" Gibbs glared at her and gestured something that Tony didn't recognize.

She gestured back.

Were they signing? How unexpected.

And…rude.

"I can see you talking about me in front of my back, you know."

They ignored him, and finished their rapid-fire silent conversation.

"Just do it, Abs," Gibbs said tiredly.

"Okay," Abby relented, obviously reluctant.

Great. Now what?

Gibbs added aloud, "Collins' computer is down in evidence lockup. Do me a favor and check it out – let me know if you find anything interesting."

With a kiss to Abby's temple, Gibbs turned and headed out of the lab. "Come on DiNozzo, now it's time to see the squad room."

Not particularly keen on being left alone with a mad scientist, Tony followed. But before he exited the room, he stuck his tongue out at Abby.

Then he ran.


	8. Chapter 8

Upstairs, Gibbs was greeted by both of his young agents leaping to their feet and starting to report. Simultaneously.

Holding up a hand to achieve silence, he informed the overeager puppies, "I'm going to talk to the director. When I get back, I assume you'll have worked out how to speak one at a time." Infused in his words was his complete lack of faith that they could accomplish this task.

Gibbs jogged up the stairs, ignoring DiNozzo's trailing, "That's fine, I've got to make a phone call anyway!"

Come to think of it, why was it that the kid hadn't had to check in with his own office yet today?

Entering a darkened MTAC, Gibbs moved silently to sit next to Morrow in the stadium-like seating towards the back. Lately the man had spent more time here than in his own office.

He waited until Morrow acknowledged him with a nod. Then, "You wanted to see me, director?"

"I did, though I have yet to tell anyone that."

Gibbs allowed a brief smile. "Anticipate."

The director nodded, used to his agent's ways. "When it's convenient, at any rate."

Shrugging, Gibbs waited. He certainly did ignore half of what he anticipated.

"Rumor has it you're working with a homicide detective."

"Rumor?"

"And that you requested him, rather than being forced into the partnership." Morrow finally turned to look at him. "I considered having the man who told me this thrown in the brig for such an obvious lie, but then you show up here with him in tow. Can it be, you've found someone you can tolerate to work with?"

"Did you want to discuss the case, sir?" Damn, where did he get his information? That was fast.

"As I understand it, the case isn't far enough along to bear discussing. I'm more interested in the possibility of you finding someone to add to your team permanently."

"I just met the kid last night. Don't you think it's a little soon to marry myself to him?"

"The whole point of creating a Major Case Response Team was to have an actual team who could respond. Not just you."

"I'm still the best damn agent you have."

"Perhaps, Jethro. But one man does not a team make."

"I've got Greene and…the new probie." Shit. He had to fire the younger of the two, his name was too hard to remember.

"You need someone who already knows what he or she is doing. Someone to watch your back."

Gibbs stood. "Call me if you have any questions. About the _case_."

Morrow let him stalk off, but Gibbs knew the conversation wasn't over. Morrow had been on a kick lately to get someone permanent assigned to the team.

But it wasn't so easy to find a competent, trustworthy investigator that would follow another's lead. The few Gibbs had encountered already had their own teams, or were searching out lead positions.

It didn't help matters that he didn't really want to go through the hassle of breaking a newbie in.

Scowling to himself, Gibbs shoved those thoughts away and took a quick detour to the head. When he made his way back to the bullpen, he chose to approach silently and see what the trio was up to.

DiNozzo was off the phone already, and had stolen Greene's desk. He was currently spinning in the chair, absently fidgeting with his sunglasses and staring off into thin air, either lost in thought or completely thoughtless.

There were two empty desks in their immediate area, so the detective's chosen location was significant. Gibbs' own spot had been chosen for visibility – he could see both elevator entrances, the stairwell entrance and the main stairs to MTAC and the director's office. He liked forewarning, even if it was only a half second.

The detective could have chosen a desk nearer to the head that was relatively hidden from sight. He could've taken the other open desk next to Gibbs – closer to the main walkway. This spot also had decent sightlines, though it was more difficult to see the primary elevator doors.

No, DiNozzo would only have kicked Greene out of his spot if he felt significantly more comfortable in that particular seat – or, Gibbs acknowledged, if he wanted to see if he could get away with bossing the probie around. But as that didn't present much of a challenge, he doubted that was the motive.

Tony's current location gave him the best view of the primary external elevator. It left him hidden to and yet exposed to the smaller internal elevator that went down to the labs, and to the internal stairs leading up to MTAC. It also afforded him arguably the best view of Gibbs' own desk, and the best counterpoint to his own view from that desk.

He'd have written that last part off to coincidence, if he believed in them.

One of the probies noticed his presence, and they both scrambled to their feet. DiNozzo stayed where he was, idly spinning in the chair, as though he'd known Gibbs was there the entire time. Or didn't care one way or the other.

"Report!"

The order went unanswered, as both probies glanced at each other, not wanting to speak at the same time.

DiNozzo sighed. "Greene, phone records!"

The probie in question ducked his head in acknowledgement. "The academy doesn't have landlines in each room. There's a communal phone in each dorm we're going through right now, but no one has to sign a log or anything for local calls, so it's near to impossible to tell who made them. Collins had a cell phone, but he didn't use it much. Some texts from Friday, school friends asking if he wanted to play laser tag. No calls, incoming or outgoing, for the last four days. Before that, it's all school-related and school friends. There are a handful of calls to one number registered to a clinic in Baltimore made over the past year. Tried calling them, but they won't give out any information, even to confirm if he was ever a patient there or not."

Silence fell, and with it, DiNozzo's face fell into his open palm. "Wadusky, that's your cue." 'You idiot' was left unsaid.

"Financials don't show any major surprises. He had some money tucked away from a life insurance policy his mom had taken out, but he didn't spend much. Kept his own car, had some expenses relating to that but nothing major. Only pattern is Friday evenings – every Friday he wasn't on duty he had a charge either from a bar or restaurant in Baltimore or the Wilson Clinic. Same clinic from the phone records."

DiNozzo stopped spinning so he could look Gibbs straight in the eye – a habit not many people had. "Now why would a Midshipman be going to a clinic off base?"

Gibbs eyed the probies and ordered, "Call the academy medical services, see if they were aware of any conditions Collins may have had that weren't in his records. Get a warrant from legal for the clinic's records – and get it _now_. Was there a charge yesterday?"

"Yes boss, from a place called Bowser's."

"I know it, Gibbs," Tony offered. "It's a bar and grill. Mixed crowd; some families during the day, younger bunch at night. Got a little bit of an old-school gaming theme going, board games and Ataris and stuff set up for the patrons to use."

"How far is it from where Collins' body was found?"

"About a mile."

Turning back to the probies, Gibbs added, "There's a stack of papers on my desk from Collins' room. Get someone to translate them, let me know what they're about. And find the damn car!"

DiNozzo added, "I put a BOLO out on the car myself. Baltimore PD will notify me directly if they find it. Faster that way, no agencies to cross."

"Let's go." Gibbs grabbed his stuff and headed out. By the time the elevator doors opened, Tony was beside him.

As they made their way down to the garage, Gibbs expected a leery sideways glance or even a plea from the detective to take a turn behind the wheel. Not only did he not do either of those things, he seemed quite cheerful as they got into the car.

This kid was weird.

"Gotta stop at my house, pick up another change of clothes in case I need to crash in Baltimore again."

"Okay. Shouldn't we be checking into what made the postmortem crushing injuries?"

"Ducky's on that. He'll ask Abby if he needs help."

"Did you talk to him again before we left?"

"Nope."

With an inquiring look and hands held wide, Tony silently asked how the hell he knew the doctor's intentions without speaking to him.

"Just know that's what he's doing."

Nodding wildly, Tony sarcastically enthused, "Oh! Right! The super secret psychic spy method of communicating. I didn't get my decoder ring yet."

Gibbs considered smacking the kid upside the head again, but in the end settled for glaring.

Muttering about crystals and federal agents, DiNozzo pulled out the case file again and proceeded to stare at it.

* * *

The car stopped, and Gibbs ordered, "Stay here," with a scowl.

Tony ignored him and kept staring at the file. He wasn't reading it; he'd memorized the details already. He needed to decide how much of his own investigation he wanted to share with Gibbs, and what the potential fallout could be if the man responded the same way that Mallace had.

Once Gibbs disappeared into the house, though, Tony found himself examining the neighborhood and the exterior of the house. It wasn't what he'd expected. This was a nice little area with smaller but well taken care of houses, manicured lawns, and kids' bikes and toys strewn over half the yards.

It was a family neighborhood. Gibbs didn't seem the family type. No ring, either. Tony would've pegged him for a bachelor apartment more like his own.

He let thoughts on Gibbs' home swirl into thoughts of the case, and go where they would. Sometimes letting them flow freely allowed him to pull out a theory or conclusion he may not otherwise have arrived at. He noted, but disregarded when Gibbs returned and started the car.

The drove on in silence, each preoccupied. It wasn't until nearly an hour later, right outside of Baltimore, that Tony heard a distant wail and came out of his trance-like state.

He fought hard to keep his glee – and just a tiny bit of guilt – off of his face.

The wailing grew closer.

He wanted to squirm, but forced himself to stay still, his eyes focused on the file again.

When the wailing behind them approached their back bumper and did not seem inclined to pass them, Gibbs swore a streak of expletives worthy of a pirate and pulled over to the side of the road.

The state trooper followed, and parked two car lengths behind them.

Two minutes passed, and finally the trooper slowly climbed out of his car and ambled up to Gibbs' window.

In an attempt to head off the annoyance, Gibbs had pulled his badge and ID and immediately shoved them into the trooper's face. "NCIS. We're on a case."

The trooper, whose name badge identified him as S. King, pushed up his hat. "That may be, but you had no lights on."

"We're investigating a murder."

King loftily replied, "Just because you're trying to solve one crime doesn't give you the right to perpetrate your own. License and registration, please."

"You're comparing a murder to a traffic violation?"

"Sir, do you mean to tell me you don't consider traffic violations a serious offense?"

Gibbs sounded like he might actually lose it. Tony considered what he'd do if that happened. Should he restrain the man and keep him out of trouble? Or see how far the wild streak would run?

Either way, this was fantastic entertainment.

Puffing out his chest, King repeated, "License and registration, please. Don't make me have to take you in."

Tony masked his sudden bubble of laughter as a hiccup-cough, then helpfully reached into the glove box to pull out the registration as Gibbs pulled his license out of his wallet and handed it over. Both documents in hand, the trooper returned to his car to run them.

Gibbs' jaw was clenched, and a little muscle over his right eyebrow was tic tic ticking away. He slowly turned to face Tony with a terrifyingly fake smile. "Did you have something to do with this, detective?"

"Me? I wasn't driving the car, Gibbs. I'm not on the state patrol. I'm just a lowly homicide detective."

The NCIS agent's face was turning red. It was rather fascinating to watch, as the red was creeping up slowly in streaks from under his collar. Tony found himself placing internal bets on one streak in particular – it wasn't a thick one, but it was extremely red and advancing rapidly. It looked like it had the power to go the distance all the way across his face.

King interrupted them. "Everything here seems in order, Agent Gibbs."

"Like I said."

"I'm still going to have to give you a ticket."

"What did you say?"

"You were going 29 miles over the speed limit. That's a very serious matter."

Gibbs restrained himself from speaking. Tony followed with his own head all the bobbing and grinding Gibbs' head did before he managed a move close enough to a nod to satisfy King.

The trooper finished writing up a ticket on his pad and handed it over to Gibbs. "You drive careful now, you hear? I'll follow you back into town to make sure you get there safe and sound. Seeing as you're on a case and all."

A low sound was rumbling in the region of Gibbs' throat, but he managed to keep his head and face still.

Before he walked back to his car, the trooper waved. "Good to see you, Tony."

A snort of laughter escaped through DiNozzo's nose – it was rather uncomfortable, like snorting pixie sticks. "See you at the court next week, Sam."

As King walked away, the remaining two men sat in silence, both twitching slightly as they struggled to control themselves from two very different emotional highs.

Eventually, Gibbs rolled the window up and started the engine. As he pulled back onto the highway with painful slowness, he tossed a heated glare at DiNozzo.

Tony let a small sly smile escape. "Well I never said I didn't have _contacts_."


	9. Chapter 9

Gibbs was less angry than he'd expected to be. The slow ride into Baltimore at the actual posted speed limit had slowed his thoughts and tamed his hostility towards the detective seated next to him.

Mostly.

He couldn't remember the last time anyone pulled a prank on him like that. Not even a prank, really. He didn't just get pulled over, he actually got a damn ticket.

"Turn right here and park where you can; it's just up the street."

Following DiNozzo's directions, Gibbs guided the car into an empty parking spot and the two men got out and hiked the block and a half to Bowser's, its purple neon sign easily spotted in the early dark of winter.

When they passed through the heavy glass doors, Gibbs was mildly surprised at the ambience of the place. Given Tony's earlier description, he'd expected a semi-frantic arcade scenario and the smell of teenage sweat. But this place smelled like orange wood polish and chocolate and pizza. The perimeter was filled with generously-sized booths done in dark blue, and the interior with smaller but sturdy dark wood tables. The floors were wood as well, and each table had a rag rug underneath.

There were definitely games – bookshelves surrounding the hostess area held everything from Jenga to Trivial Pursuit. An area off to the side had been set up with several TVs, couches and big plush armchairs where video game boxes lay strewn about as a trio of teenage boys good-naturedly hassled each other over a racing game they were playing. Looked like they belonged to the two older couples relaxing at a nearby booth.

Some pairs of diners were scattered around inside, and a study group had taken over the largest corner booth, but in general the place was surprisingly empty.

"It's in between busy times, it'll get crazy in an hour or so," Tony explained without being asked. He moved forward to intercept the hostess as she hurried back to greet them. He flashed a standard DiNozzo smile and his badge simultaneously and the young woman's professional mien softened a bit as she gave him a more personal smile in response.

Gibbs watched with a mixture of disgust and respect as the detective leaned over the girl, lowered and deepened his voice, and proceeded to unnecessarily sweet talk his way into the restaurant.

"Hi…I'm Tony, and you are?"

"Amanda. Would you like a table?" Her eyes were riveted to Dinozzo's. She tried to grab menus from a nearby side table without looking, but missed by quite a bit.

Another smile, another inch closer to her. "Amanda, I'm with the police, and we're searching for anyone who might have seen a guy who ate here last night." DiNozzo pulled out Collins' picture. "Does he look familiar?"

She looked at the photo, but not for long – apparently DiNozzo's face was more interesting. "No, but I didn't work last night. Do you want to ask some of the waitstaff?"

A bigger smile, and yet another inch closer. "Amanda, I'd really appreciate that."

Gibbs trailed behind, bemused, as he watched the detective interact with the rest of the staff. DiNozzo had a solid first read on people; knew when to step back, when to lean in; when to make the conversation more professional or more intimate based on how the person would best respond. Perhaps the most interesting part was as Tony slipped from easygoing guy to ridiculously smoldering Casanova to studious, earnest detective, none of the people grouped around him seemed to notice he was tweaking his persona just for them.

Gibbs had his own version of this character chameleonism, though he didn't play as many roles, and preferred not to do it at all among so many people. But the more bodies Tony got in the middle of, the more dynamic he became.

DiNozzo approached him. "No one remembers seeing Collins, but a hostess and a waitress that worked last night are coming in for the next shift. They should be here within an hour."

The two stared at each other.

Gibbs gave in to the silent question, but only because he hadn't eaten anything since the muffin that morning. "Fine, we can eat here while we wait."

"Hey, that's a great idea!" Gibbs rolled his eyes as Tony beckoned Amanda back over and secured them a table and menus.

DiNozzo scanned through the menu but appeared to be just confirming that what he wanted was still listed. Gibbs took a more careful look, wishing the lighting was stronger. It was hard to see the tiny print in such dim surroundings.

Deciding a burger was always a safe bet, he set the menu aside. Once both menus were down on the table, a frazzled waitress appeared instantly to take their order, then efficiently disappeared.

DiNozzo's eyes were searching the room, restless. Gibbs tapped one finger on the table top to get his attention. "Tony. What were you looking for in that case file?"

Instead of a shuttered shut down or chatty deflection, the full weight of the detective's curious gaze finally settled upon him, openly assessing. Gibbs accepted the inspection, and took the opportunity to return it.

DiNozzo looked tired when he slowed down. Not just lack of sleep for one night tired, but chronic tired. A little wary. Like someone who had been running for a long time.

But that didn't make sense. The last place you'd try to work if you were truly on the run would be a major metro police station.

"Your captain doesn't think very highly of you. That doesn't upset you?"

"No; I don't think very highly of him."

"Why don't you have a partner?"

"Captain has a new theory. Baltimore doesn't have enough cops to cover all the crime, so he's decided pairing detectives off is just a waste of resources. There's a few guys who still work as partners, but most of us go solo now, or have a uniform as backup instead of another detective."

"That's one of the stupidest things I've ever heard."

Tony shrugged. "You don't work with a partner."

"I have a team."

Honest laughter echoed from across the table. "You don't trust them. Have they ever even been in the field with you?"

"They were at the crime scene last night."

"Yeah, a roped off crime scene crawling with cops. I mean in the real field, where you can't predict what's going to happen next."

"Didn't predict you."

"Touché."

Their conversation paused as the waitress brought Gibbs' requested coffee and Tony's lemonade. "Your food will be out in a few minutes, guys. My shift's over, but Gretchen will be with you in a minute – she's the server who was on duty last night." With a round of nods, she departed.

Tony resumed. "Is that normal NCIS structure – to work in teams?"

Gibbs shrugged with one shoulder. "No one set way." He sipped his steaming coffee, then tried another route to get back to his original question. "Why were you at the Collins' scene?"

DiNozzo leaned back, a considering look on his face. He no longer seemed unwilling to answer the question, just cautious. Hell, maybe the kid wasn't used to answering questions directly. "Maybe we should play a little game."

"Why the hell would we do that?"

"Just curious if you have any people skills."

"I have damned people skills. Just don't see the need to Rico Suave every female that passes."

Tony's eyes lit up as he leaned forward again. "Now there's an interesting competition. We could cruise the place, see how many phone numbers each of us can get. If you get more than me, I'll tell you about the case file."

"What kind of dumb shit is that?"

"If you don't think you can do it…"

"_I won't_ do it."

"Too immoral for the great Gibbs? It's just phone numbers, not one-night stands."

"Don't want to embarrass you."

"Embarrass _me_?"

"Seems like you might have a fragile ego about that kinda thing."

DiNozzo's eyes narrowed a bit. "You got anything to back up those words?"

"Jesus, kid, you don't have to challenge me every single step of the way." Sighing, Gibbs noticed their new redheaded waitress approaching the table with the food.

"Here you go, gentlemen. Amanda said you wanted to talk to me about some guy last night?"

Gibbs pulled his own copy of Collins' picture out and flashed it at her. "Do you remember this guy coming in last night?"

She plucked the photo out of his hand and studied it. "Yeah, he was one of my tables. Early dinner. Quiet, well-mannered. Steak, medium. Ate with another guy, flatbread pizza."

"Any arguments, heated discussions?"

"No, seemed like they knew each other well. No tension that I saw. Left happy enough."

"Do you remember what time?"

"Sorry, not exactly. I can try to pull their ticket from last night."

"We'd appreciate that. Do you remember what the other man looked like, which one of them paid?"

"They went Dutch, both paid in cash, though. Other guy was a little older, maybe mid or late thirties. Neat, wearing clothes like he just came from the office. Skinny tie, little wire-framed glasses. Brown hair." She paused, then looked at both of them with apology written across her face. "Sorry, that's all I can remember."

"That's real helpful," Gibbs reassured, digging a card out of his pocket. "If you remember anything after we leave, you just call that number, okay?"

She glanced at the card, then nodded and looked back at him.

Wincing internally at what he was about to do, Gibbs caught her eye and stared.

And stared.

When he felt she was locked in, he tilted his head to the side a little; she mimicked his action.

He added that special something to the stare that he couldn't easily put into words, then let the side of his mouth crook up just the tiniest bit.

Flustered, she searched her half-apron for something with both hands while still holding his eyes.

Gibbs smiled fully.

The waitress flushed.

She finally glanced down, having found the pad and pen she was searching for, and scribbled furiously. Ripping off the page and handing it to him, she said, "Just in case…you need to get in touch with me. For anything." Then abruptly turned and left.

Gibbs let the piece of paper with the phone number lie on the table for a minute.

"Man, you didn't even say anything," Tony muttered, a little awe showing in his face. Then he gave into it – or masked it with buffoonery, hard to tell which. He raised both arms and lowered them again, "I bow to your skills. I have much to learn from you, master."

"Always had a way with redheads."

"So you didn't want to endure a little friendly competition because your talents only work on redheads?"

"No, I told you, I didn't want to embarrass you."

"Now Gibbs, you may have some moves, but that doesn't mean you'd win that particular bet."

"You didn't think it through enough."

"Excuse me?"

"No rules."

"Well, gentlemanly behavior seemed implied…"

"All I had to do was flash my badge and say I needed their number for an investigation."

Tony's face fell. "Well, shit. That's cheating!"

"You didn't specify."

DiNozzo crammed grilled cheese into his mouth, chewing furiously. "Cheater."

Gibbs sat back and bit into a fry. He was suddenly tired himself. "Couldn't do it any other way."

"Why not?"

Scowling and pushing the food around his plate, Gibbs finally admitted, "Still technically married. Not right to go catting around."

Frozen mid-bite, Tony repeated, "Married?"

"Almost divorced. Few more days."

"I'm sorry," DiNozzo said, looking sincere for once. "You won't lose the house, will you?"

"No. Had that house a long time. It survived the first two divorces. Should survive this one, too."

Eyes widening, the detective started to say something, but apparently decided not to and filled his mouth with tomato basil soup instead.

After eating in silence for a minute, Tony suddenly straightened his posture and very properly patted his mouth with his napkin, slowly replacing it on his lap. He rearranged his silverware on the table to the appropriate positions, and laid his knife across the back of his plate.

Interesting. Gibbs wouldn't even have known what the kid was doing if it hadn't been for his damned third wife insisting he use proper table etiquette at their rehearsal dinner.

"I think there's a serial killer in Baltimore."

Gibbs had assumed the detective was headed somewhere in that direction with all his strange interest in the case and secret files, and had already decided to proceed cautiously if the other man ever decided to confide in him. He nodded slowly. "Serial killers aren't all that common, despite how the media may make it seem."

Waving this off in annoyance, DiNozzo agreed. "I know. Even I thought I was nuts at first, just putting pieces together to suit a Hollywood storyline. But it's too many now."

"Too many what?"

"Crushed body parts."

"Explain."

"I worked a case about three months back, Michael Martin, seemed like a hit-and-run. But the autopsy showed that the guy had been killed before the car got him – strangled, actually, then run over. Weird, but not _that_ weird in our line of work, right?"

"Right…"

"So I treated it like a normal murder. It really bugged me though, and I never could find anyone I liked for it. No motives, no suspects, no murder weapon. So when another case came across my desk where the vic had been killed by blunt force trauma to the head and only after that had his foot crushed in some kind of clamp, it made for weird connections in my head."

Gibbs nodded; if nothing else, his attention was engaged.

"But no real connections. Couldn't find any ties between the two guys, two different murder styles, two different postmortem injuries. A week later a nineteen year old girl showed up in the river. Drowned, then her ribcage was crushed postmortem. Wasn't my case. Official result was that she was a suicide and had gotten bashed around by a boat in the harbor before she was found."

"But you don't think so."

"Maybe. Some of them are probably not connected. But I've been going through all the homicide files starting with the most recent and working my way back. In the last two and a half years, there are 26 files I found where the victim was killed suddenly, no witnesses, generally at night and downtown. 13 strangulations, nine blunt force traumas, two drownings and two ODs on tranquilizers. All with some part of their body crushed after death."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow – that was a startling set of figures – but kept quiet, waiting to hear whatever else DiNozzo had to say.

"I'm betting there's more. A lot of bodies move through Baltimore. Whether or not a crushed hand or skull happened before or right after death wouldn't always get noted. If there are more bodies in the water, we might not even have found them. He could've buried or hidden some, too, though none of those I do know about have ever been particularly difficult to find."

DiNozzo's expression intensified. "I don't have any ties between any of the victims. I don't have a common murder weapon. I've just got a feeling."

"You talked to Mallace about your theory?"

"I did. It didn't go so well."

"Meaning?"

"He put me on a mandatory one week leave and made me sit in on sessions with the department shrink."

Assuming there was more, Gibbs prompted again, "And?"

Grimacing, the detective allowed, "And…he told the entire department that I was delusional. Didn't do as much damage as he'd hoped, I think, he doesn't have such a sterling reputation among the ranks himself. But still."

Still, indeed. Bringing a possible pattern of criminal activity to a superior should never result in public mocking. Gibbs' opinion of Mallace sank even lower.

"Collins fits your profile."

"Yes. In theory." With a disgusted sigh, Tony ran his hand through his hair and yanked on the ends. "But even if there is a pattern, any of these cases could be unrelated. A body in the harbor could have banged up against a boat or pier. A body in the street can get run over." He shrugged.

"I'd like to see the files."

DiNozzo's shoulders jerked up like someone pulled his strings tight. "You're not dismissing the idea?"

"Nope. How many of those 26 cases are marked as unsolved?"

"Twelve. That's a high percentage, even for our overworked department."

"And the other 14?"

"Both the drownings and one strangulation listed as probable suicides. The tranq vics as accidental ODs. The rest have arrests, none with confessions."

Toying with his napkin, Tony muttered darkly, "That bothers me as much as the murders. Nine people sitting in jail, with no idea why. Enough evidence to bring them to trial, but no confessions, no one piece of evidence strong enough to really lock in a sure conviction. What if they're all innocent, Gibbs?"

Gibbs had no answer. He repeated the only thing he could think to say. "I'd like to see the files."

With a raw and painful glimmer of hope in his eyes, Tony nodded. "I have copies of everything in my desk."

"Well then, why the hell are we sitting around here yapping?"


	10. Chapter 10

_Thanks to all the reviewers and returning lurkers. To those who wondered when there would be more action, I hope this chapter fills the need._

_Warning [rather belated] for language throughout this story. Warning for potentially disburbing images below (but I'm just being safe; there's nothing particularly gruesome)._

_Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

After paying their bill and receiving multiple apologies from their waitress because she couldn't find Collins' receipt from the night before, then briefly speaking with the newly arrived hostess who had been on duty last night who ended up having no memory of seeing their dead Midshipman, Gibbs and DiNozzo set out for the police station.

Tony brooded in the passenger's seat, ignoring Gibbs' non-standard routes around the now traffic-filled area. He hopped back on the highway and DiNozzo stayed silent. Traffic seemed to be moving better than he'd have expected there, given the time of day and mucky road conditions.

Then he remembered it was Saturday. No weekday rush hour to contend with.

How many times had he lost track of the days recently…of the time of day? He was handling his case load and his side investigation, but it was starting to take a toll.

If Gibbs would really give the matter consideration, though, maybe Tony could finally gain access to some of the resources he so sorely needed.

"Gibbs."

"Mhmm."

"I don't have any support for this theory."

"Kinda figured that."

"And I'm just a homicide cop."

"You like telling me obvious facts?"

"I don't have access to details of homicides from the surrounding areas, definitely nothing across state borders."

"You think this guy might be killing in an even larger area than Baltimore?"

"No. I don't. At least not now. The bodies I found that fit the pattern were mostly found in a small area of downtown. But maybe he started somewhere else and worked his way here. Or maybe I'm wrong, maybe he's killing all along the eastern seaboard. Better to know."

"We can look into that."

The sudden feeling of relief that passed over DiNozzo was so intense he was momentarily afraid he might relieve himself on the seat. He looked up with a real grin on his face, trying to figure out what to say in thanks to the first person who had listened to him in a long time.

His grin turned to horror and he wordlessly shouted when he saw a white pickup ahead of them suddenly skid and ram into a blue Subaru, which in turn slammed into an old red Toyota Tercel that went into an uncontrolled spin in the left lane of the highway.

Gibbs had already seen, was already reacting. Cars were braking everywhere, most too quickly for the icy road conditions, and suddenly the two cars to their immediate right crashed into each other. Gibbs put on a quick burst of speed just in time as both cars spun to the left in a macabre dance of grinding metal and slammed into the concrete divider right behind them.

More and more vehicles made undesirable contact all around them, like a thriller version of a bumper car ride. Gibbs hands were steady on the wheel as he wove and dodged, braked and sped up to avoid the hulking catastrophes lurking in every sightline.

All at once, they came to a stop. Cars lay smoking, sideways, upside down all around them, but they hadn't been touched.

Tony looked over at Gibbs, eyes a little wild. "I will never comment about your driving again."

Gibbs started to smile just as a mass of skidding metal hit them from behind, pounding them into the minivan ahead.

One of them groaned as they were thrown against the door and dash. Slowly DiNozzo realized that the car had come to a stop again, it was just his head that was still spinning.

He looked up, and the airbags went off.

Everything went black for a few seconds, but he didn't completely lose consciousness.

DiNozzos don't pass out.

Fighting his way back from the lure of nothingness, he coughed at the acrid smoke now filling the car and shoved away the offending airbag. "Gibbs?"

No answer. Tony struggled to move only to find himself locked in by his seatbelt. He was pinned, the buckle wouldn't release.

"Gibbs!"

The man came awake with a start, hand going to his weapon, an obvious indication that he didn't know where he was.

"Gibbs, it was a car accident. We're stopped now, but I'm pinned. Where's your knife?"

"Knife?"

"Your knife Gibbs," Tony urged, "you just yelled at me this afternoon for not having one. You win. I'll carry one from now on. But I need to borrow yours for a minute. Gibbs, where's your knife?"

Shaking his head in a futile attempt to clear it, the agent fumbled at his waist and drew out the requested item, passing it to Tony. Quickly cutting himself free, Tony leaned over to do the same for Gibbs, then patted the man on the cheek. "You with me?"

Gibbs groggily pushed him away. "Fine. You're bleeding, Tony." He reached up and poked a raw scrape on the side of DiNozzo's head.

Taking stock, Tony decided he was just banged up – again. Tomorrow would really suck, but he was ultimately fine. Gibbs might have a slight concussion, but he was looking more alert, and knew who he was with.

They looked at each other, and both opened their doors and jumped out at the same time.

Neither wasted precious seconds looking around that the carnage that surrounded them. They leapt into action straight ahead of them, Gibbs slightly to the left and Tony a set of cars one or two to the right, but always within sight of each other.

The first motorist Tony came upon had a broken leg, but was otherwise fine. He told the man to stay put and call 911, then pulled a neighboring driver who seemed shaken but not majorly injured out to keep Broken Leg Guy company.

Moving through the line of cars, he tied off a tourniquet on one leg, cut several people free from their seatbelts, checked probable broken bones to make sure there were no compound fractures. Everywhere he went, he put people together to keep an eye on each other before he moved on. He could easily have stayed with any of the injured parties, but always he saw Gibbs checking in and moving on to his side, and he kept going, kept him in sight.

It wasn't long before he came across a fatality. No pulse, chest caved in by the steering column. He wanted to pull her out, try CPR, at least be able to tell her family that someone had tried to save her. But honestly, it wouldn't work. And he was only halfway through the mass of tangled cars that lie ahead of their own sedan. And there were more behind that.

No fucking way would he ever have survived as a doctor or EMT. Triage was even worse than his own job. At least triaging case files was juggling the already confirmed dead, just shuffling around the order in which they were investigated.

Sure he would puke as soon as he stopped moving, DiNozzo moved on.

Tony's ears were ringing from his impact with the airbag, there were shouts of people all around and a fire somewhere behind them that added a distant roaring. Despite this, he had no problem hearing Gibbs' shouted, "DiNozzo!" from several cars away.

Memorizing where he left off on his own uneven progression up the line of broken cars, he hustled over to where Gibbs kneeled by a Jeep that rested on its side.

He looked up, determined and in control, but with the first hint of fear Tony had ever seen from the man.

A woman lie on the ground behind the agent, crying hysterically, bleeding heavily from her head and right thigh. Gibbs waved Tony away from her, and quietly said, "Baby."

Sure enough, there was an infant strapped to a car seat on the back seat of the Jeep. Gibbs was having problems worming into a good position to grab the silent, unmoving child. Together they ripped off the topper of the convertible Jeep and Tony twisted in among the debris, cutting all the straps binding the kid to the car seat while Gibbs waited beneath to half catch, half pull the boy out.

Tony feared his partner had lost it when he started laughing. Gibbs looked up at Tony, then walked over to the sobbing woman. As DiNozzo watched, the baby yawned and blinked his eyes open, reaching for his mother when he saw her.

Gibbs laughed a little harder, and Tony went to help him up after he surrendered the baby to the lady, worried. But Gibbs wiped a hand across his dirty, bloody brow and huffed, "Kid slept through the accident. Must be nice."

With a hand on Gibbs' shoulder, Tony waved forward two nearby women who were cautiously approaching. Neither looked too badly hurt, so he tore off another strip of his dwindling shirt and instructed them to apply pressure to the woman's wounds and stay with her until the paramedics got to her.

Gibbs scrubbed his hands across his face and issued a more-or-less steady, "Let's go." The crashes were worse in this area, towards the beginning of the pileup where the cars had still been going fifty or sixty miles per hour.

They could hear sirens now, but no emergency vehicles were in sight yet.

It would take them a while to get through. It would take a legion to clear this all away once they did reach the scene.

Again, they forced themselves not to stand and look around, not to think about where they were going, just to follow the path of destruction and stop at each window. There were two more fatalities and an overturned car, smashed so badly that there were no windows to look into. Tony wanted to stop, to try to turn it over, but when no one responded to their calls, Gibbs grabbed his arm and forced him to move on. They didn't have the equipment to deal with something like that, and there were at least a dozen more cars ahead of them with serious damage.

Together, they managed to pry loose a door on an SUV that had also ended up on its roof, but stayed structurally intact. A grateful man and his four kids crawled out of the newly made opening and stayed sitting on the nearby pavement, as though the ground was too untrustworthy to walk upon.

Gibbs suddenly hustled, and Tony followed, unsure what made the man skip the next two cars until he himself rounded the last one and say the old Pontiac balancing precariously on the edge of the overpass. Somehow the car had jumped on top of the guardrail on the right side of the highway, and now teeter tottered back and forth in a sickening motion.

There were still people inside.

Gibbs moved to the driver's side and Tony to the passenger's side. There was a young man behind the wheel, a young woman next to him, and a kid about three or four in the back seat. All were rigidly still.

The front windows were both down – or blown out, hard to say for sure. Gibbs spoke calmly to the driver. "What's your little girl's name?"

"Holly," the driver said, his head never turning and his face never moving.

Tony turned to the cars behind them, quickly searching through what trunks and tailgates he could open looking for rope.

Gibbs, still talking to the occupants of the deathtrap car, softly encouraged, "Why don't you have Holly crawl up in the front seat, real slowly, and we can take her out the window here?

Face white, both young parents complied, urging the little girl to crawl up over the drink console and onto her daddy's lap. The car tilted faster in each direction, but Gibbs plucked her out of the car, and once she was safe on the ground everyone breathed a little easier.

By then, Tony had found two lengths of rope, and was shimmying under the front end of the Pontiac, looking for a good place to tie on to. Finally settling on one, he quickly secured a knot, then another with a second length of rope, then slowly removed himself and found Gibbs tying the other ends to nearby SUVs – the heaviest the ropes would reach to.

Nodding to Tony, they silently returned to their former positions: Gibbs by the driver's side and Tony at the passenger's door.

"Are both of you free from your seatbelts now?"

Two affirmatives.

"Real slowly, we're going to open the doors. Stay still until we tell you to move, okay?" Gibbs looked back to Tony. "On the count of three. One…two…three."

Both opened the doors halfway and paused. Together, they each reached in an arm and took their respective victim solidly by the hand, urging them to move swiftly out of the car.

One minute later, they all stood back safely, staring as the car continued to teeter totter on the guardrail.

Now Tony wanted to laugh. Running a dirty hand through dirty hair, he let out a little giggle and waded back into the sea of wrecked cars.

A few minutes later and a half dozen cars away, a shriek of metal caught his attention and he looked back, afraid the Pontiac was about to finally crash despite the ropes, and seriously hoping there were no cars below.

The noise was definitely from the Pontiac.

And the Pontiac was definitely about to go.

And Holly was crawling across the hood.

The breath left Tony's body as he started to run, weave between the cars, to try to get there.

The car tilted back and this time didn't tilt forward.

He wasn't going to make it.

Suddenly, Gibbs ran in from the side, reaching out, but Holly was too close to the windshield and the car was slipping away.

He jumped on the hood, grabbed the girl, and tossed her, screaming, safely onto the road.

Gibbs disappeared over the edge just as Tony arrived.

He thrust his arm over the edge desperately, searching, and encountered…

The rope.

The rope was still attached! He glanced back and saw a black SVU slowly moving towards him as the weight of the Pontiac dragged it over; the other rope had snapped already.

Throwing his entire upper torso over the guardrail, Tony saw Gibbs trying to climb up the rope as it slowly slipped down. He reached and yelled, stretching and screaming at the Marine to push harder, climb faster. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Gibbs gained a little ground and came infinitesimally closer. Finally, Tony was able to grab one of Gibbs' wrists with both of his hands and yank.

That might have been the safe end to it if the SUV acting as a weight hadn't suddenly slipped faster, slamming into the guardrail and grazing Tony in the process.

Silently straining, he refused to let go, but almost lost his own purchase on solid land. Both feet left the ground, and he threw his weight backward as best he could, jamming his feet against the side of the rail and twisting to stay in place. He felt his body go weightless for a moment as he nearly went over himself, but dug in, twisted harder, strained back.

He felt something in his knee give way with a searing tear, but only ground it deeper, pulling, pulling, pulling…

Falling.

Backwards, as Gibbs finally came over the edge.

They both lie panting on the ground as the guardrail finally gave way with a grating metallic groan, and the SUV followed the Pontiac down to a fiery landing below.


	11. Chapter 11

He awoke slowly, murkily, painfully. Tendrils of blackness stretched out to pull him back down, to wrap him in tarry quiet. But there was something falling against his chest in an irregular patter.

It was irritating.

"Gibbs."

Another _thump_, this time against his side.

"Gibbs!"

Eyes not yet open, he finally got his mouth working and snarled, "_What_?"

"Time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty."

This verbal aggravation and another light impact to his torso encouraged Gibbs to try to sit up. The pain in his head negated the attempt, and he collapsed back, focusing on opening his eyes instead.

He frowned as he finally cracked them open. The couch he found himself on was blurry and unfamiliar. He reached down to his side to pull one of the offending missiles closer to his face.

Toilet paper?

Grunting as he forced his eyes all the way open, he examined his find again. Definitely a new roll of toilet paper.

He was surrounded by it. Rolls were scattered on his stomach, along the side of the couch, and down by his feet.

What the hell?

"You awake?"

"Maybe." He looked over at the voice. His vision was still blurry and a little jerky; everything was surrounded by a halo of light, though the overhead light was blissfully off, and the main illumination came from around the drawn curtains, from the television screen, and from a source behind him.

Turning around to look didn't seem like such a good idea right now.

"Do you know where you are?"

He didn't, but that did not seem like a good thing to admit. This was no office, no hospital, no hotel. The couch was too comfortable for a hotel.

He forced his mind to focus. The voice was…the voice was DiNozzo.

He guessed, "Your place?"

"I'd believe you more if you removed the question mark from the end of that sentence."

Tony was sitting on a second couch, perpendicular to the one Gibbs currently occupied. His legs stretched across the length of the cushions, one knee bound with multiple ice packs and resting on a stack of pillows and sweatshirts.

Reaching down to the floor, he grabbed another roll of toilet paper out of the monster pack resting there and lobbed it at Gibbs' thigh. "What's your full name?"

"Concussion check?"

"Yep."

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs."

Tony smiled widely. "Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you about that."

Gibbs threw a roll of toilet paper back at the detective's head.

Laughing, Tony swatted it away. "There's coffee in the thermos. Just reach your hand down to the floor."

Letting his left hand fall and searching without looking – turning his head made it swim – he was relieved to find a container within reach. He pulled it up and propped his head a bit higher against the side of the couch, taking a shallow sip.

It was still hot.

"Figured you might finally wake up and stay up for a few minutes soon." Tony took a swig of something that rested on the coffee table nearest to him.

No coasters, so probably no woman lived here.

"Do you remember how you got here?"

"I remember the pileup."

DiNozzo's face smoothed out a bit, as though he did not want to remember too many specifics himself on that front. "And then?"

"Hospital."

"Details?"

Frustrated, Gibbs tried to pull his thoughts into line. They weren't listening to his commands, and kept sweeping away when he tried to pin them down. "No."

"That's okay. It might come back as your head starts to feel better."

"Bad concussion?"

"I think you started it in the initial crash, then you banged your head against the concrete pretty hard later when…" Tony trailed off.

"They didn't make me stay?"

"Said they could release you if someone was around to check on you."

"So you brought me home?"

"Your phone got smashed up in the accident. I'm not sure who I would've called anyway, but it seemed like a bad idea to call NCIS HQ in the middle of the night to find someone to babysit you. No big deal."

"Who made the coffee?"

"I did. Why, is it bad?"

"Well, yeah, DiNozzo. It's weaker than water. But I meant why the hell are you moving around making coffee when you're supposed to keep that still?" Gibbs waved at the detective's knee, encompassing the nearby crutches with his gesture.

"No big deal," Tony repeated, "It'll be fine in a day or so once the swelling goes down. Hey, you want a pizza?"

"For breakfast?"

"It's one thirty in the afternoon."

Shit. "Shit! The boys must've gotten that warrant by now. I need to get over to that clinic."

"They may have, but there's not much point in going over there now; I already called and they're closed."

"Why they hell are they closed at one thirty?"

"It's Sunday, Gibbs. I don't think they'd have been open anyway on a Sunday. But as it stands, nothing's open right now." Grabbing a crutch and contorting his torso towards one of the covered windows, he used the long tool to bring a cord from the blinds to his hand, then raised them.

Swearing at the increased light, it took Gibbs a moment to realize that the white he was seeing was not a side effect of the concussion.

The sky was gray-white, everything below it was covered in white, and purer white fluffy flakes drifted down in fat blobs.

"We've gotten eleven inches so far with a couple more to go, or so says the weatherman. Nothing's open."

They both watched the snow fall for a minute. It was entrancing, soothing. And yet infuriating. How could they advance the investigation if everything was closed?

He suddenly remembered their conversation at the restaurant, and where they were headed before the accident happened. "I'll go to the station, get your files. We can look through those."

"You will do no such thing. You're not going anywhere today."

Gibbs prepared to get nasty.

"Besides, I had Leo bring me the files and some groceries before it got this bad outside. He doesn't live far from here."

Leo… "Whitford?"

"Yep. So, you want a pizza? Just a frozen one, I'll pop it in the oven."

DiNozzo slowly moved his right leg down to the floor with both hands supporting his thigh, then swung the left down next to it.

"You stay put, I can do it." Gibbs struggled to sit upright, finally succeeding in the attempt, though he had to close his eyes as the world swirled around for a moment.

"And have a guest prepare the meal? Never!" Tony rose, full of fake offense. For a split second he eyed the crutches, as if he'd prefer not to use them and just hobble about. But in the end he did grab them and swing his way into the kitchen, located behind the couch Gibbs was planted on.

Just how bad did the kid's knee have to be for him to think that using crutches would look better than trying to walk on it?

"You want a pain pill? They sent you home with a half bottle."

Grudgingly, the agent allowed, "One."

"They're on the table beside you; careful, cap's loose already."

Gibbs turned carefully and snatched the bottle off of the table, uneasy at the convenience. Either DiNozzo'd had someone take care of him after a similar situation and put this much thought into it, or he'd dealt with it enough alone to know exactly what would make the painful and disorienting massive headache as tolerable as possible.

Loudly humming some tune Gibbs did not recognize, Tony easily navigated the small kitchen as flipped the oven on, pulled a pizza box out of the freezer and opened it up, placing the pie on a cookie sheet already set on the counter.

He grabbed a bag of shredded cheese out of the fridge and added a considerable extra helping on top of the frozen stuff.

Tony used the end of one crutch to catch the edge of the oven door and pull it down, then he slid the pan in and slammed the door shut. Using the other crutch as a pivot on the floor, he swung himself around, threw the remaining bagged cheese back into the refrigerator and butt-bumped the door closed.

He was way too practiced at using those crutches.

Pissy, Gibbs demanded, "Where are those files?"

"All in good time."

"Now."

Eyebrow raised, Tony loftily proclaimed, "Eat first. If you don't puke, you can work."

Gibbs wanted to smack him, but he wasn't sure who would win at the moment. He deflected. "Where's the head?"

DiNozzo pointed with the end of a crutch. "Just down there, first door on the left. If you want to shower, there's clean towels on the rack. Just…be careful, okay?"

At the last admonishment, Tony ducked his head and looked away, puttering around the kitchen. "I don't want to drag your concussed ass out of the shower if you fall asleep in there." He resumed his song, this time including loud words instead of just humming.

Levering himself to his feet, Gibbs stood with both hands on the arm of the couch before he moved further, taking stock.

In general he didn't feel any worse than he had yesterday morning except for his head. He was achy all over, especially his shoulders, and his hands were bandaged.

Suddenly he remembered: _A little blonde girl, almost going over the side of an abyss. He tossed her back, going over in her place. But there was a rope, and he tangled in it, dangling. He slipped, but suddenly two arms appeared from nowhere and a voice berated him to move faster, pull harder. He did. Something grabbed onto his wrist and yanked upwards._

He looked back at his hands. Definite rope burn.

"Why was the girl on the hood of that car?"

DiNozzo paused what he was doing and looked over. "Teddy bear. Still in the backseat."

Unsettled in thought but sturdier than expected on his feet, Gibbs made his way down to the bathroom, pulling the door shut firmly behind him, but not locking it.

Glancing in the mirror was a mistake; his face was a mixture of day old cuts and bruises and fresh ones. A huge bump protruded from the right side of his head, swollen and scraped badly enough that some of his hair had been ripped out.

He looked like Frankenstein's monster. Couldn't go anywhere near Abby looking like this. Maybe it was a good thing his phone got trashed before Tony could think to call either her or the meddling doctor.

He definitely needed to clean off. Maybe that would even help improve the monster mask.

A knock sounded at the door, startling him. Tony called out, "You still decent?"

Rolling his eyes, Gibbs went to open the door. "What is this, a sorority house?"

Eyes gone merrily wistful, DiNozzo plopped his hand, crutch and all, over his heart. "Ahh, those were the days. Sorority raids…good memories." With a cheeky grin, he handed over Gibbs' bag of clothing that he had replenished at the house yesterday. "Here, almost forgot."

Accepting the bag and closing the door again, Gibbs realized he didn't know what he was wearing at the moment. Looking at himself in the mirror again (tilting his head downwards still made him want to vomit), he found he was wearing his own sweats that had been in the bag.

He sure didn't remember putting them on. Some things were best left unremembered.

Undressing, he found that his right side was one massive scrape – he must've slammed up against the side of the overpass. He was lucky neither of his shoulders has popped out of joint from abruptly catching himself on the rope.

His memory flashed again: _Bright lights in the hospital irritated his already uncontrollable headache. He thought his head would explode finally, then maybe there would be some peace. It didn't burst, and no relief came. Something touched his head – it felt like a mace. Striking out reflexively, his fist met flesh and a feminine shout of pain followed. He stilled himself, shapes around were blurry and he wasn't sure who he'd hit. Someone yelled out "Security!" but another voice was quick to follow, "He's okay, you just startled him. Gibbs. Gibbs, it's DiNozzo, you need to be still for the mean lady doctor. Or she's going to tie you up and shoot you. Just be still." DiNozzo's hand rested lightly on Gibbs' left bicep and he continued talking, narrating what the doctor was doing._

Turning the shower on scalding, Gibbs stepped inside and momentarily abandoned trying to corral his thoughts into a single file line as the water washed away some of the pain and aches, and some of the fuzziness in his head. Since the shampoo was in a caddy hung over the shower nozzle and the soap was down on a dish below that he'd have to bend over to get, he kept his head level and used the minty shampoo on his hair and his body. It stung.

When the water finally started to cool minutes later, he reluctantly turned the water off and stepped out, eschewing the now soiled sweats he had been wearing for a second pair he'd thankfully stashed in the bag yesterday. He greedily pulled on thick, warm socks. It wasn't cold in here, especially after the steaming shower, but the image of all that snow outside echoed in his visual memory and made him want to bundle up.

Gibbs frowned. He wasn't firing on all cylinders yet. His behavior was off – when was the last time he put so much thought into socks?

It made him nervous to be off his game and playing houseguest to a detective he wasn't yet sure of.

Actually, it would probably make him nervous to be around anyone right now.

Shaking off what could easily have turned in to a power brooding session, he gathered his things and proceeded back towards the small kitchen. Dropping his bag by the couch, he looked around at his surroundings, paying more attention to the details this time around.

The apartment was neither tiny nor large, the furnishings neither old and ratty nor new and shiny. The living room area was taken up by the two full-sized plush gray couches in their L shape with a glass coffee table in between and two small, mismatched wooden end tables. The entertainment center against the far wall held a large TV and was flanked by two tall bookshelves full of DVDs. Much of the remaining wall space was taken up by windows on two sides – apparently Tony had a corner unit – and the third wall held three framed movie posters. "The Thin Man," "Lethal Weapon," and "The Defiant Ones." Interesting combo.

Turning around put him face to face with Tony, who was watching Gibbs examine his place through the empty space above the bar that looked into the tiny, neat kitchen. DiNozzo gestured back towards the bathroom, "Go on, explore. You'll be more comfortable. Pizza will be done in five."

Gibbs shrugged and turned back around, going past the bathroom and ducking his head into the first open door on the right. It was probably billed as a second bedroom, but was currently set up with a treadmill, rowing machine, and heavy bag suspended from a beam in the ceiling. There was no decoration, no TV, not even a radio in sight, but the equipment looked used, and there was no dust on anything.

Backing out, he padded down the short hall to the final door, also opened, that led to the larger bedroom.

A king-sized bed took up much of the room, a thick down comforter pulled back in disarray. No one had ever taught this kid to make his bed in the mornings. The headboard had been made into a bookshelf, and two more flanked the bed, mostly filled. The ones to either side held modern spines, paperbacks jumbled with hardcovers, but the shelves over the bed looked like they held antique volumes.

A few articles of clothing were scattered about, but in general this room was also neat and uncluttered. Woven baskets filled a cubby shelving unit against another wall, interposed with a few framed photos. All were landscapes or city shots, places DiNozzo had presumably been, except for one picture of a younger, college-aged Tony surrounded by a group of happy guys sitting on the steps of a brick building marked with Greek letters. Frat house.

Gibbs refrained from pulling open drawers or poking into to the standing wardrobe. He did open the remaining door in the bedroom, expecting another bathroom, and was surprised to find a tiny office crammed in what was supposed to be a walk-in closet. A small desk sat at the end with a computer and lamp. Two file cabinets flanked the closet entrance, making it a narrow squeeze to enter. They were locked.

The desk wasn't pushed flush to the far wall; instead, the four or five feet between the desk and wall held stacks of empty boxes.

Having spent most of his life around military personnel, Gibbs recognized the signs of a man who expected to be posted somewhere long enough to unpack, but not long enough to get rid of the boxes. The neat, uncluttered nature of the place backed that up. He hadn't been around long enough to acquire a bunch of useless stuff sitting around.

"Pizza, pizza!" Tony called from the kitchen.

Gibbs backed out of the office and closed the door, heading back towards the smell of food. He was hungry, but also nauseous. Always an annoying combination.

DiNozzo was now armed with a pizza cutter, and wielded it with expertise. "Soda, milk or water?"

Gibbs stared at him.

"No beer for you, not with the painkillers." Tony grinned cheekily. "Don't want you getting all loopy on me."

Gibbs continued the stare.

Tony slipped pieces of pizza onto two paper plates and pointed behind him. "I made you another pot of coffee. Addict."

Grabbing both the plates of food from Tony's hands before he had to watch how the detective had planned to move those around with crutches, Gibbs deposited them on the coffee table, rescued his thermos of now cool coffee, and went to refill. Tony looped the handle of a quart of milk around his thumb and swung back to the couch he had previously occupied.

Grabbing the remote, DiNozzo questioned, "Sports? TV? Movie? News?" He seemed a little uncomfortable now, like he wasn't sure what to do with his now-conscious guest.

Not that Gibbs was one to talk in that particular arena. He shrugged, indicating his apathy, and eyed the pizza on his plate. Good idea or bad idea? Always so hard to tell after a concussion…

Tony flipped through channels and landed on a repeat of some college bowl football game. They watched in companionable silence as they munched on their food. Neither of them were the type to knife and fork a pizza.

Gibbs stuck to a relatively safe three pieces, and after assuring the younger man that he was done, watched Tony make his way through the rest without problem. When he had finished, and the relatively small mess from their meal was cleaned up, DiNozzo swung over to the apartment's entrance and bent over to pick up a good-sized box. As it seemed heavy and the kid was obviously having some difficulties navigating back to the seating area with both crutches and container, Gibbs yanked the box away from the younger man, carrying it to the coffee table.

Inside, he found a large stack of promised case files.

Leaning back on his sofa as Tony reseated himself and restlessly surfed through channels, Gibbs began to read. After just a few minutes, Tony gave up, turned the television off, and started rereading case files, careful to keep out of Gibbs' way.

Over two hours later, Gibbs mused aloud, "There is a kind of pattern. A progression."

Tony jerked around to look at him. "He's getting more sure of himself. Looking for harder game."

Gibbs agreed. "Moving from frailer to progressively healthier and well-built targets.

"Until he got to a Midshipman. Young, strong, trained to fight."

"No signs of a fight on the body, though, so this whacko's still afraid of a head-on confrontation."

"He has to be in decent shape, I figure on the taller end, twenties to fifties."

"Sneaks up on his prey like a coward from behind. Or lures them in somehow."

Their musings were interrupted by a loud and angry pounding upon the apartment door.

"You expecting anyone?" Gibbs asked.

"Nope." Tony levered up off of the couch and swung over to peer through the peephole. "Huh." Gibbs moved up behind him as he unlocked and opened it.

There stood Ducky, angry as Gibbs had ever seen him, face nearly purple.

"Hey, Duck."

"That's really the most appropriate thing you can think to say right now, Jethro? 'Hey?'" Ducky stepped forward, and Tony quickly closed the door and hopped back, eyes darting quickly between the two men.

"There a problem?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

Ignoring the dripping sarcasm, Gibbs opted for keeping dumb until the doctor got all the mad out. "Look a little red in the face."

"Yes, well, worrying for the past ten hours or so does tend to alter one's complexion. The lovely drive here through the aftereffects of a raging blizzard certainly helped. And the elevator is, of course, out of order, so you'll forgive an old man if he's a bit _flushed_ after not sleeping and then climbing up two flights of stairs!"

Gibbs opened his mouth to reply, but was hit with another memory: _Stumbling out of a taxi, he wasn't sure where he was supposed to be going until the voice he'd been growing accustomed to for the past few hours called for him to follow. He forced his eyes open and found Tony, on crutches – when had that happened? – and followed him inside a building, out of the snow that was falling from eerily lit skies. What time was it? Tony started a slow progression up a flight of stairs that looked endless to Gibbs' tired eyes. "Elevator?" he asked, hoping. Tony looked down at him, apology in his eyes. "It's broken. Let's just go slow, we'll make it." Gibbs started up, but soon found his dizziness was playing tricks; he was having problems judging the depth of each step. He lurched over to the left banister, nearly falling backwards, and held on, eyes closed, feeling like a moron who had climbed up a tree and was unable to get back down. Except worse, since this was just a normal set of stairs. He started climbing, pulling along the banister, eyes still closed. How could anybody feel this dizzy with closed eyes? Suddenly there was a hand clamped on to a hunk of his shirt, pushing gently at his back but also providing an anchor if he started falling backwards. He wanted to slap the hand away, but he'd done so several times tonight, and it kept coming back. He wanted to scream, but there was no point, so he didn't. Together they struggled up the stairs with three legs and no balance, both of them falling against the other or the wall, eliciting pained grunts, but no stoppages. Tony kept them both moving upwards, never quite falling. He was panting harder than Gibbs, but never stopped, and never unclamped his hand from Gibbs' shirt until the ground leveled out miles later._

Gibbs stumbled back a step, his vision suddenly blurry again, his head echoing the ache of that moment fiercely. The shame of causing pain to an already injured teammate rang fresh in his mind. How could he not be able to climb _steps_?

Hand at his temple, Gibbs' arm swept behind him as he searched for the wall to prop himself against while the wave of pain passed. Ducky, face yet unchanged, issued a stern sounding, "Jethro!" and stepped forward.

Thankfully, Gibbs found the wall. If he had not, he may have ended up sliding into an ungraceful seat on his ass. Ducky never would've caught him in time.

Tony now blocked his path, having stepped between the doctor and Gibbs, crutches falling onto the kitchen floor. The clatter they made as they hit the linoleum was the only sound in the apartment.


	12. Chapter 12

Ducky looked on in astonishment as the young man he'd met only the day before stepped in front of Gibbs, as though to protect him.

He could not recall a time when anyone had ever stepped between Gibbs and a perceived threat.

Truly astounding.

And that _he_ of all people should be perceived as a threat to Jethro… His chest puffed out a little.

Ducky stepped forward to explain, but that action was also mistaken as aggressive by the now stony-faced DiNozzo, who was clearly uncertain what was going on as he stepped back to better cover Gibbs rather than forward to confront the doctor.

Unfortunately, as the young man stepped back, he was forced to put some weight on his injured limb, and though he kept his footing the obvious pain it caused elicited yet another step forward out of Ducky, who instinctively reached forward to try to stabilize the detective.

What may have then become a very ugly situation was saved by an even more miraculous occurrence. Gibbs, having seemingly regained his balance and composure, stepped forward and rested a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "Hey. Bonehead. It's okay." Gibbs' tone was quiet and in no way condemning. In fact, he sounded a trifle ashamed of himself for some indiscernible reason, and perhaps a bit proud of the young man.

This was fascinating. Truly worth the awful drive it took to get here.

Gibbs gestured for Ducky to move back a bit, and he did so, leaning over to pick up the fallen crutches and extend them to the detective as a peace offering.

Tony looked back at Gibbs, and whatever he saw in Jethro's face must have reassured him, for he accepted the offering with a sheepish, nearly bashful expression that was most charming. "Thanks, Doc. Guess I dropped those."

"You had best not be dropping them again tonight, not with the damage you've incurred."

Gibbs stepped forward, now side-by-side with DiNozzo. "What damage?"

Tony waved his hand dismissively. "Nothing, it's fine."

Gibbs slapped the boy upside the back of his head. "Duck?"

"I can't say with any certainty the extent of the damage, but the doctor I spoke with at the emergency room said it was a least a torn meniscus. Really, Jethro, I understand they were insanely busy with the numerous victims of that automobile accident. But to virtually ignore you, with a head trauma, is inexcusable. If young Anthony here hadn't browbeat them into seeing you, you might still be sleeping on those uncomfortable waiting room chairs, smelling antiseptic and feeling your headache grow worse and worse under those horrible florescent lights. Though I do quite like the smell of antiseptic. It reminds me of –"

Gibbs cut him off. "I don't remember that."

"Hardly a surprise given a severe concussion."

"Why don't you know how bad Tony's knee is?"

Tony finally interjected, "Hey, how about why does he know anything about my knee at all?"

They both ignored the detective. "Because he left before they could complete any of the necessary tests to learn more, Jethro."

Both older men turned to glare at DiNozzo, who glared right back. "What business is that of yours?"

Gibbs leaned in and growled, "I'm making it my business."

Ducky nodded. "And really, as you told the hospital you had no personal physician, I felt I should act on your behalf in that capacity in case they hadn't shared something with you that may later prove important."

"You're a medical examiner!"

"Ah, yes…very astute."

"I mean, you're not a personal physician, you're a medical examiner!"

"Seeing as I was already acting on behalf of Jethro as his doctor on record, they didn't seem to find it difficult to believe that I may be acting on yours as well. Though I can see your point; it's a dreadfully run place. They shouldn't be giving out patient information to just anyone who asks."

Tony stared back, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

"Why did you leave?" Ducky queried.

"Didn't need any tests; I've had every knee injury in the book. I can take care of it myself, it's not that bad."

Eyebrow raised at the defiant young man before him, Ducky saw Gibbs' expression go blank again, as if he were lost in a memory.

"Might've been partly my fault," Gibbs said gruffly. "Don't think I was behaving very well."

Ducky chuckled; had he ever heard Gibbs admit such a thing before? Unlikely. "Yes, they informed me about that. It did sound as if you may have been restrained for the rest of your stay if not for your young man here."

Gibbs and DiNozzo traded a quick, unreadable look, then both glanced away, eyes firmly on the ceiling.

Ducky found himself unable to reach his previous levels of anger, but still chastised the two before him. "You could've called, you know. It was quite worrisome not being able to reach you after the hospital called to say you'd been injured, then later told that you'd disappeared."

Tony interjected, "His phone was smashed in the accident, and I wasn't aware they'd call you."

"Mhmm. And I suppose, Jethro, you've been awake for only two minutes and have not yet had a chance to contact me?" Ducky leaned around the men, shooting a significant glance at the case files strewn about the table.

Gibbs scowled, scratched at the back of his head, looked around for a better excuse, then finally, grudgingly, said, "We'll remember next time."

Restraining the laugh that wanted to come forward at the surly Marine's use of "we," Ducky stepped forward towards his main charge, now unimpeded. Jethro jerked away, and Tony went to the kitchen, presumably to hide. "Can I get you something to drink, Doc?"

"Hot tea would be lovely, if you have it."

"Sure." Tony set about making it, sounding relieved to remove himself from the conversation for a while.

Gibbs led the doctor further from the kitchen, towards the seating area. "What else did you find out about his injuries from the hospital?"

"Shouldn't you like to know more about your own condition, Jethro?"

"Concussion. Better now. End of story."

"Yes, well, I suppose by your definition, it is. I imagine Anthony feels rather the same way."

"Ducky…" Gibbs' voice warned.

"I really don't know, Jethro. It took so long for him to force them to see you, and once he was satisfied you had nothing more than a concussion, it seems like he removed you as quickly as possible. He's had none of the scans or x-rays needed to determine the extent of any injury. Has he others, besides the knee that you know of?"

Shrugging, Gibbs admitted, "I don't know. Don't remember last night very well. But his knee and ribs were already bothering him from the night before. And he pulled me up over a bridge last night."

"Over – excuse me? I was under the impression your injuries were caused from the accident."

"Nah, that was just a lovetap from a sedan."

"And you ended up over a bridge how, exactly?" The doctor worked to keep his voice from raising several octaves.

"Long story. Later, okay?"

Reluctant, but more at ease now that he saw his friend relatively unscathed in front of him, Ducky assented. "Have you any clue what injuries your detective alluded to that lead him to be so familiar with lower limb trauma?"

"Nope. But I asked Abby to look into his background, maybe she'll find something." Gibbs' head snapped up and he searched Ducky's face. "Shit, you didn't talk to her about the accident, did you?"

"I'm rather afraid I did."

"Dammit, Ducky!"

"I needed to find out if she had spoken with you, since I couldn't get through."

Gibbs closed his eyes for a moment. Then he reached out a hand, palm up. Ducky placed his phone there and rose to visit Anthony in the kitchen while Gibbs called a very anxious young lady.

As he entered the young man's kitchen, Tony repeated his earlier, sheepish smile. "Just waiting for the water to heat up."

Gibbs may be the best investigator and canniest interrogator NCIS had, but sometimes his methods left a lot to be desired when it came to matters of personal communication. "I am curious how you came about those lower body injuries you mentioned before, if you don't mind my asking."

Ducky had been afraid the boy might tense up at such a personal question – he really had no handle on the detective at all yet – but in fact Anthony relaxed, apparently comfortable with this topic.

"I was a Phys Ed major in college. Played everything I could. Spent a lot of time with basketball and football, ran long distance."

Ducky relaxed as well. "Ah, that explains it. I imagine your studies increased your knowledge as well. You must have studied anatomy to some extent."

Tony nodded, opening a jar of peanut butter and beginning to eat small spoonfuls of the stuff straight out of the jar as he leaned against the counter. "Sure did."

"Anthony," Ducky said gently, "no matter how much information and experience you have with such matters, you still could not be certain about the level of damage an injury like that has caused without scans."

Tony smiled, but there was more warning to the expression than welcome. "I can take care of myself. Don't worry about me."

Ducky was beginning to fear that if this lamb was brought into the fold, he'd be even harder to corral than the mighty ram himself.

DiNozzo turned and removed another spoon from a nearby drawer, then extended it and the jar of peanut butter towards the other man. "Want some?"

Though he wished to pursue the matter of the young man's injuries, Ducky suspected increased pushing on his part would only meet with increased deflection. Hoping the offering of a utensil was more tentative welcome than mere misdirection, Ducky did not hesitate to accept.

Little did he know that significant snowstorms would forevermore remind him of eating creamy peanut butter off of a scarred spoon and sipping rather bad jasmine tea in the tiny kitchen of a particularly intriguing Baltimore homicide detective.


	13. Chapter 13

_Sorry for the delay! And for all the technical problems. Thanks to those of you who got the message to me that all was broken. My account is back up, all chapters should be in place now, and my PM function is restored. If you see any bugs, please let me know! Also thanks to my review partner, without whom there would still be no chapter because I am majorly dithering over this middle part, and to all the reviewers and lurkers who continue to support the story. A note to cmb1496 and CherokeeIrish - I can't reply to your kind comments as the site informs me you have PMs turned off. But thanks for the encouragement!_

_

* * *

_

Tony didn't mind feeling unsettled. Unsettled wasn't an inherently bad state of being, it was just an indicator that something wasn't sitting right, or something was about to happen.

Or, as was currently the case, an indication that he wasn't adapting well to the situations he found himself in.

The pain in his knee – and his back, and his hip, and his ribs – was distracting. He hadn't slept for more than an hour at a time in over three days. For the past twelve hours, he'd been taking care of a strong-willed fed who growled constantly, even in his sleep. And now he had two guests in his apartment.

Guests made him nervous. He wasn't sure what to do with them. It wasn't like these guys had come over to watch a movie or a game. They were basically stuck here until the plows made some headway, and Tony had the uncomfortable feeling that he was supposed to be hospitable, though he didn't have a firm grasp on what that entailed when two feds were camped on your couch.

Even discounting who they were, it was disconcerting that there were people in his space. In the space where he relaxed, turned off, stopped thinking. He couldn't turn off when there were people here.

He desperately needed to.

Tony closed his eyes abruptly, shutting out his image in the mirror before him.

Excuses. All excuses.

No_, being_ unsettled didn't bother him, but he intensely disliked that he had outwardly displayed his own internal disquiet without purpose.

There was no reason that excused that kind of carelessness, that utter lack of self-discipline. He needed to pull himself together or else risk watching himself fall completely apart. And he'd vowed long ago never to let that happen again. It was not an experience he cared to repeat.

Tony strong-willed his pain, his unease, and his doubts back into their proper home – a mental dog crate that he latched as soon as they were securely contained. Then he began to bring his breathing under control, using the imagined tick of a metronome to control the duration of each inhale and exhale.

He forced himself to take the time to do it properly. He dismissed the rush he felt, banished everything still circling in his thoughts item by item. When there was nothing on his mind but the _tick-tick-tick-tick_ of the imaginary inverted pendulum, he began the process of gradually building his expression into one of lighthearted, curious interest.

He'd been using too many patches lately, plastering quick fixes onto his face at the last minute.

Long ago, he'd realized that method was only useful for short durations. A man could hold a purposeful demeanor much longer and more easily if he built it off of an aspect of his own personality and emotional state and held it. And in this case, he was curious. He wanted to know Gibbs' and Ducky's opinions. He had no reason not to be lighthearted. He was warm and safe in a location of his choosing, with two members of law enforcement who were taking what he felt was a major threat seriously. He would continue the discussion of the case with them. They would make progress.

Not merely composed, but now ensconced in a more stable state of being, he washed his hands and exited his bathroom – a bathroom he'd been hiding in for at least fifteen minutes as he let the other men talk in hushed tones in the living room.

With a mindless smile that indicated nothing of worth, he resumed his seat on the couch he'd previously occupied, shoving toilet paper rolls to the side as he relaxed into the familiar, reassuring cushions.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow at him.

Tony increased his smile, but made no other move. He waited.

Gibbs rolled his eyes and pulled the stack of case files into his lap, passing the top few to his medical examiner. "Since you're stuck here, Duck, you might as well give us an opinion on these."

"What's this, then?"

Tony interrupted before Gibbs could explain. "Actually, Doc, if you could just read through first to see if you come to any conclusions yourself, that would be great."

Grunting his assent to this plan, Gibbs returned his attention to his stack of files.

Waiting until he was sure they would remain silent while reading and not verbally tossing around ideas, Tony slowly allowed his eyes to unfocus and his mind to wander where it would. He found this restorative – it was better than nothing when he was short on sleep, and still left him alert enough to be aware of his surroundings, to respond to something quickly if he needed to.

His thoughts flew by too fast to fully recognize most, but a few recurred enough to be noticed, or screamed so loudly they couldn't be passed over.

He met Gibbs less than 48 hours ago. It seemed much longer.

Ducky smelled like Pine Sol.

Why was it that he hated tuna, but there was always a can of the stuff in the kitchen?

These two feds, feds with real backing by their agency and with seemingly real work ethics, were paying attention to his theory.

His ribs were starting to itch as much as they hurt. A good sign, though more agonizing than the pain.

There was a hole in Gibbs' left sock. It was small, but it was definitely present. Tony smiled unconsciously. It made the man more real.

It was a good thing he had no pets. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been at his apartment. Four, five days ago?

Gibbs was taking _him _seriously. Not just the case. Why? They didn't even know each other.

A lone snowplow rumbled slowly through the street, jarringly loud in the silence of the room, and the extended silence of the blanketed world.

Images came to him from the accident last night. Crushed bodies, broken limbs, scattered bits of glass indistinguishable from the freshly fallen snow, Gibbs disappearing over the side of the overpass…

He shuddered.

This guy. This killer. He was real. Tony had no doubt. He nudged his thoughts in that direction and let them swirl, let all the pages and words and facts of the case files mingle together in random patterns, trying to fit previously unrelated pieces together.

Something felt different about the Collins murder. Maybe it wasn't the same killer. Or had an aspect of the murder differed from the earlier kills? If so, for what reason?

His thoughts were interrupted by Ducky.

"Without being able to examine the bodies myself, I would suggest these two might not be related." He tapped his fingers on two files he had separated into their own pile.

Tony scooted forward. "So you do see a connection between the others?"

"Yes, of course. The same man who killed our young Mr. Collins may well have killed these unfortunate souls," he gestured at the rest of the files, strewn on the table and between Gibbs and himself. "At least, it seemed so to me." He frowned. "Do you disagree?"

Letting a short, disbelieving laugh loose, DiNozzo reassured, "No. No, I don't disagree, Ducky." He paused, then asked, "Why do you think those two don't fit?"

"One of the bodies found in the water does appear to have died from drowning, which isn't a cause of death in any of the other cases, plus the crushing wound to her skull does more resemble a close encounter with the hull of a boat then any sort of purposeful postmortem injury. And this man who was shot, whose wife is now in prison?"

Tony nodded, attention fully engaged.

"The foot that was crushed suffered less force than the other victims, which would indicate a person of less size and strength – or less purposeful intent upon causing such an injury – was the perpetrator. If she had moved his body in the trunk of a car, for example, and slammed the trunk accidentally upon the appendage, it could easily have left such a pattern of damage."

"But the others?"

"The others do share a disturbing similarity. I can't entirely discount the possibility that some are unrelated, but it does not seem probable that this many similar postmortem injuries would pop up independently of each other in such a small area in so short a period of time. Some were apparently inflicted by driving heavy machinery or vehicles over the dead, but those that were caused by blunt instruments or smaller weapons do show a similarity of force. Additionally, the victims that were strangled were all attacked from behind. And you see how the bruising is deeper here and here?" He gestured to a darker portion of the bruise on one autopsy photo. "It indicates that the strangling devise was pulled upwards. The killer was likely taller than this victim."

Ducky shuffled through the files, pulling out two more. "And here, the deepest part of the bruise shows that the killer was at the same height as this man. And this file shows a slight downward pulling, indicating perhaps that he was shorter than his victim. Given the heights of these three gentlemen, that would put the murderer's height at 5 feet 10 inches, or thereabouts. I could give you a more precise answer given a few more hours with these files, and some additional information from your coroner's office."

Should he feel relieved that he wasn't crazy? He didn't. Well, he did a little. But mostly he felt sick that this fuck was really out there, and he hadn't been able to do a thing to stop the spree.

Gibbs was staring as though he knew exactly what thoughts were going through DiNozzo's head. It was disconcerting.

"Has your team any solid leads, detective?" Ducky asked.

"No. Who's hungry?"

Gibbs snorted.

"I feel as though I have missed some important factor."

Tony started to ask what everyone was hungry for, but Gibbs rode right over him. "No one but DiNozzo is even looking for this guy. Nobody knows he exists."

"You haven't brought your findings to the attention of your superiors yet?"

Feeling his smile harden, he didn't even attempt to outtalk Gibbs this time.

"He did. Nobody believes him."

Ducky swore. In a most foul fashion. Judging from Gibbs' raised eyebrow, this was not a common occurrence.

"I've got more frozen pizzas, though we did just have one. But really, is there such a thing as too much pizza?"

"Jethro, you must do something about this."

"The killer or the pizza?"

"The killer, of course!"

"Well yeah, Duck, I intend to."

Tony continued his verbal musings, unwilling to lose his overall surprisingly decent mood with a discussion about Mallace's management skills. "I tried calling the Thai place down the street earlier; they're one of the only non-pizza joints that'll deliver around here, but they're closed too. So we're limited to what's in the kitchen."

The medical examiner was not done. "There's plenty of material in these files alone that indicate these cases are connected. I presume our young detective presented this material to the powers that be?" He tossed a glance at Tony for confirmation.

Tony ignored him. "I have pasta. And enough to make a simple sauce. I could make stew, but it would take a couple hours."

Gibbs interjected, "He gave it to them."

"This is ridiculous! Once you've settled this case, you need to do something about that captain. He shouldn't have such a position if he neglects his duties. He's not protecting the citizens of his city, and he's obviously not supporting his detectives when they try to do theirs. And I…I shall do something about the medical examiner who signed off on these files. It's disgraceful to think that they wouldn't have backed you up."

DiNozzo detoured from his meal monologue long enough to reassure, "Ducky, Baltimore has more than one ME. Those autopsies were performed by seven different people."

"But once you presented them with the full picture, they still wouldn't back up your theory?"

"That's not really how things work here. I'm thinking pasta. How about you guys?"

"Tell me, how _do _things work here, Anthony?" Ducky was beginning to sound like an angry British nanny.

"His captain ridiculed him publicly for having independent thought. Guessing no one wants to cross the bastard." Gibbs had gone back to reading the file perched on the arm of the couch. He kept pushing his head back further and further from the papers, as though he couldn't see them.

The doctor began to stand, as though needed more height for his pending fuming rant.

Tony stood faster, swinging into the kitchen. "I'll start the water boiling." He hit the switch for the overhead light as he went, brightening the room considerably.

Gibbs smiled. He also shot the doctor a look.

Tony couldn't see their faces from where he stood in the kitchen, but whatever silently passed between them was enough to smooth out the indignation on Ducky's face and have him reluctantly settle back onto the couch.

For this, Tony was grateful. And to show his appreciation, he would cook a most wonderful meal. Just like mother never used to make.

* * *

DiNozzo began wholeheartedly bellowing some trite Italian song that reminded Gibbs of spaghetti sauce commercials.

Sighing but saying nothing about the small annoyance, he turned his attention back to the file, hoping Ducky would let the subject drop for now.

"'Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,' my friend."

He should have known better. "Smells like dinner to me."

"Judging from the lack of mention, I assume young Anthony has no partner?"

"Yep."

"And in the time you've spent together, has he checked in with anyone? A senior detective, or lieutenant, perhaps?"

"Not that I heard. Did say he was going to call in once."

"So it is entirely probable that he has no–"

Gibbs cut him off. "Ducky, how about we pretend I just walked out of the room?"

"I merely wish to ascertain that you are paying attention to the detective as well as the case, Jethro."

"Stop fussing. He's not the only cop in the world to work alone because his superior's either crooked or a fool."

"But he's one you can do something about."

"I'm not running a daycare for wayward detectives."

"Do you think he requires one? I begin to get the sense that he's quite used to being on his own."

"Hell, I don't know. Can we focus on the case?"

"You wouldn't have a case without DiNozzo. Or rather, you'd be looking for Collins' killer with no notion that the act may have been at random."

"It's almost never truly random." Something was bothering Gibbs' gut on this one. Just the Collins' case, not the others. It didn't feel like a chance choice of victim.

"You know what I meant, Jethro."

"So I should give him a medal for doing his damned job?"

"I don't imagine he'd appreciate it any more than you do." Before Gibbs could retort, Ducky gracefully rose and went to the kitchen to offer his services dicing the tomatoes.

* * *

Though he didn't cook often, Tony had perfected a few of his favorite dishes so he could indulge himself when he got the urge for a home-cooked meal.

He didn't often cook for other people, though, and found himself mildly nervous as he set the plates down in front of Gibbs on the coffee table. Shoulders that stayed slightly tight through Ducky's effusive verbal praise finally relaxed upon Gibbs' largely silent praise – the rapid cleaning of his plate, and the immediate request for seconds.

After dinner, the three men sat quietly, discussing the differences and similarities they saw between each case file. Gibbs and Tony were intent upon getting to the clinic the next day, and after a quick phone call home, Ducky indicated that he'd like to stick around and talk to at least one of the medical examiners from the case files.

There was a brief battle regarding sleeping arrangements once all three finally admitted they were tired. Tony won the fight by lying down on the couch he'd occupied earlier in the day and refusing to move. Gibbs quickly copied the move on the couch he'd woken upon that afternoon. Grumbling about bratty children, Ducky took the bedroom.

Though the lights were out, the snow-filled night captured the illumination from the streetlights outside and reflected it, filling the air with a dim golden glow that snuck in around the window shades.

Tony gazed at the soft ambient light as his thoughts wandered back to the case. He knew he was near the point of obsession with this case, but having allies only intensified his ardor.

Tomorrow, they would follow the leads they'd flushed out. They would get one step closer. And he'd keep taking steps – or leaps, if he could – until he caught the bastard killing people in his territory.

Thoughts that threatened to turn to silent brooding were interrupted by a soft impact against his head.

"I can hear you thinking, DiNozzo. Be quiet."

Smirking, Tony batted the roll of toilet paper onto the ground and finally succumbed to a blissful sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Gibbs woke groggily to a strange noise.

One good thing – no disorientation. The concussion's worst effects were already over. He knew where he was, he knew who he was, he knew who else was in the apartment.

But what the hell was that damn noise? Sounded like a mixture of squeaking and crunching.

Flipping the blanket aside, he slid his feet to the floor and automatically suppressed the groan that tried to escape. The worst effects of the concussion may have passed, but he still had a nasty headache.

Following his nose, he found a thermos of hot coffee on the table in front of him.

He drank the entire contents without stopping for a breath, then looked over at the other couch. No blanket, no debris, everything neat. DiNozzo was up.

Standing stiffly, he saw both Ducky and DiNozzo were in the kitchen, producing the unknown sound. He moved closer to find the cause.

Tony swallowed and produced a megawatt smile. "Morning Gibbs. Hungry?"

Whatever he was eating looked threatening, and produced the undesirable noise when chewed upon. Gibbs considered backing up, but the coffee was in the kitchen.

He stalked forward slowly, hugging the opposite counter, only to see Ducky bite into the same monstrosity.

"What the hell, Duck?"

"Anthony offered to make me his power breakfast. It consists of peanut butter toast topped with chopped celery, banana slices, and Cheerios. It's much better than it sounds." The ME pronounced "Cheerios" as if it were a foreign word. It probably was, in his household. "And it's certainly better than it looks. If prepared correctly, as I understand, everything melts slightly around the edges from the toasted bread producing an – interesting – texture."

Both men in the kitchen took large bites of their crunchy green-brown goo-toast and looked at Gibbs expectantly, as though waiting for him to request his own portion.

He poured coffee into his cup without looking away from them. Burning his hand on spilled hot liquid was preferable to taking his eyes off of the lunatics.

Retreating back to the couch, he checked his watch and pulled out his cell, dialing probie #1.

It was answered quickly. "Gibbs! Are you okay? Abby told us you were in that pileup on the highway. They're _still_ working on towing all the vehicles out – there were so many…"

Well, shit.

He had recognized the fact that his car – the motorpool's car, really, but his current method of transportation – was wrecked, but he hadn't fully realized the implications of that yesterday.

He had no wheels.

Sipping his coffee, he eyed DiNozzo. Maybe he could steal the detective's wheels.

Ignoring Greene's excited questions, he ordered, "What's the status of the warrant for the clinic's patient information?"

"It's ready. You can talk to the admin as soon as you can get there; I just got off the phone with her, she's there already. She'll have copies of Collins' files waiting for you."

Gibbs grunted and returned to his transportation thoughts while Greene continued peppering him with ignorable questions. Apparently he was less intimidating on the phone.

Thinking to rectify that fact by hanging up, he moved to do so – but stilled his hand when he tuned in to what the kid was saying.

"…the footage is grainy and dark, but it's still amazing. That was so impressive, boss. You just jumped on that car and tossed the girl off without even considering where you'd end up. And Detective DiNozzo – he must've leapt ten feet at once. It looks like he missed you at first – then you can see he's pulling your arm, that he's got you. It's seriously like a movie. And then when he's almost got you up, he gets grazed by that SUV. I can't believe getting smacked in the back with a truck didn't send him over the edge! How is he? Is he even moving around yet?"

Gibbs hung up.

He finished his coffee and set the cup down on the table.

He stood and walked back into the kitchen.

Considered the way Tony was standing. There was something stiff about his posture that the knee didn't account for. He seemed at ease, leaning against the counter with his crutches discarded several feet away, but his back was barely touching the surface behind him.

Gibbs slapped the underside of DiNozzo's hand, sending the rest of his breakfast flying into the sink. Though DiNozzo was not slow to react, he lost a precious half-second in surprise, affording Gibbs the opportunity to pull up and outward on the man's shirt, forcing him further from the counter and revealing his back.

The right half of his back and his right side were purple and black. Something not healthy oozed out of a scrape the size of watermelon. The entire mess disappeared below the detective's waistband; presumably his hip was in a similar condition.

Immediately full of rage but with nowhere handy to vent it, Gibbs dropped his hold on DiNozzo's shirt before glaring into his eyes.

A smart move, as it turned out, as the detective was getting ready for a fight.

Oh, Gibbs wanted to pound some sense into the dumbfuck. He wanted nothing more. But pain was apparently not a method by which DiNozzo learned.

Stalking away, he angrily grabbed up the remote from the coffee table, hitting the power button. The screen brightened to a local news program, whose anchors were talking about the storm and its effects.

He was aware that both Ducky and DiNozzo warily came out of the kitchen and were standing behind him. All three were silent.

Gibbs' eyes did not leave the television. He waited.

"And here again is the amazing footage of two unknown heroes who apparently worked their way through the wreckage of dozens of cars, lending aid where they could, until finally almost perishing themselves in the daring rescue of a young girl."

Ignoring the sensationalized language, Gibbs walked closer to the television, until he was within touching distance.

Some yahoo with a camera in their car had caught the whole mess on tape. Gibbs, a dark blur, ran across the screen and scooped the girl up, tossing her free of the toppling car.

He fell.

Just as Greene said, DiNozzo made a last leap that didn't seem humanly possible, then dangled half over the edge as though defeated, watching his partner fall to the pavement below.

It was startling to see DiNozzo pull back with a mighty heave, an obvious counterweight on the other side.

He was too damn far over the side of the overpass. Very near to falling himself.

The DiNozzo on screen kept pulling. The video was shot from fairly far away, but you could still see the strain in his muscles, the constant tension. Finally, a pale hand appeared over the top.

Just as the videographer started to cheer, one of the SUV's they'd earlier tied to the car in danger slipped across the icy road and clipped the detective in the side.

Tony's feet lost purchase, and for a stomach-dropping moment he was airborne.

Then his feet slammed into the side of the guardrail, digging in. The camera wielder was too far away to pick up the sound, but Gibbs imagined he could hear the _pop_ of DiNozzo's knee as he turned and pushed against his own purchase, refusing to let go of Gibbs.

Finally, in a split second, Tony found his purchase, gained his balance, and hauled his partner over the side in one smooth motion, where both landed in a heap on the ground just as the guardrail gave way, and the SVU went plummeting down to the road below.

Gibbs reached to turn the screen off, but paused with arm and remote extended when he saw DiNozzo's form rise up off of the pavement on one leg and wave down one of the medics who were starting to arrive on scene. The EMT came over but quickly moved away with a "stay here" motion of his hands, apparently off to continue sorting out any victims of the pileup who were in more immediate, life-threatening danger.

DiNozzo looked lost for a moment. Then he slowly took off his jacket and used it to cover the unconscious Gibbs on the ground, and sat in the slushy snow beside him, apparently to await the medic's return.

Gibbs' rage still existed, but it had been banished to the background, a wallpaper upon which a new and uncomfortable emotion hung boldly upon.

His stomach, lungs and esophagus braided together, he turned off the television and stood staring at the black screen, thankful neither of the men behind him spoke as he composed himself.

Gibbs was not particularly used to having to compose himself.

He heard DiNozzo move. Unsure what to expect, he was mildly surprised that no doors slammed, and the apartment door to the hallway didn't open.

Instead, he heard gentle noises from the kitchen, and then a small protesting noise from Ducky – the kind of noise the ME unknowingly made when finding something particularly disturbing on an autopsy patient, like signs of abuse on a child.

Gibbs gently put the remote down on the table and walked back to the kitchen.

He expected a fight.

What he got was a question.

"So…" Tony held out a freshly made bread and goo concoction, "You don't want a power breakfast?"

Gibbs stared at him, honestly baffled for the first time in years.

DiNozzo shrugged. "More for me." He continued to eat until the entire mess was gone, staring Gibbs in the eye the entire time.


	15. Chapter 15

_I am horribly late at posting this. I will be better._

_The continuous reviews and notes from people were seriously appreciated. They did make a difference - they added motivation. I encourage you all to go write a PM or another review to your favorite stuck stories. Most of us have them - stories we love, but that have never been finished, or seem to be on a serious hiatus. In fact, in case there is not already such a thing, let's declare April 'Encourage the Finishing of Fics Month' - in the politiest, most encouraging way possible, of course!_

* * *

After he finished eating, Tony put away the various ingredients and wiped off the kitchen counter, then calmly headed back to his bedroom without the use of his crutches, calling out, "Just gonna change, then we can get going."

Glancing at Gibbs' wrinkled Marine Corps sweatshirt, he flippantly added, "Let me know if you want to borrow any clothes."

Pleased with his cool presentation, Tony continued. He could breathe in solitude for a moment when the door was closed between him and the others. A moment was all he needed to recoup from the voice still commanding, "Danger, danger Will Robinson!" in his head. He just needed a change of scene, a new focus. Gibbs still looked far too pensive after watching that stupid tape.

Ducky stepped forward to block his path. "You _will_ let me take a look at the damage before you step one foot outside of this apartment."

DiNozzo waved his hand in the air. "Nah, I'm good. Come on, let's get going. I want to get to the clinic before they get bombarded when the roads start to clear."

Ducky stood firm. "Absolutely not."

"You have something against getting to the clinic before it gets busy, doc?"

"Your flippant attitude will get you nowhere with me, young man."

"I can do my job fine."

"You are injured."

"I can do my job _fine."_

"Anthony, you will relent."

"No." Tony felt his face falling into seriousness, and quickly lightened it with a smile, aware he still probably looked less than genuinely pleased. It was an intentional slip.

Gibbs was watching closely, but made no move. Apparently Ducky was the go-to guy for medical harassment.

Tony deftly stepped around the doctor, but Ducky followed, showing no respect for privacy this morning. Tony tried to slam the door behind him, but it was caught by a surprisingly strong grip.

"If in fact your desire to 'get going' is in any way motivated by your eagerness to get back to the case at hand, I suggest you give in now and let me get this done as quickly as possible. Arguing will only cause delays." Owl-wise eyes peered out from behind spectacles, evaluating. "Or do you value your own privacy over your investigation?"

Behind them, Gibbs snorted.

Tony agreed with the rude noise. Low blow.

He released his hold on the door and turned, heading towards the bed, leaving the doctor to follow or not as he would.

Of course, he did.

Tony sat on the edge of the bed and lifted up the right side of his shirt.

Ducky shook his head. "Off with the shirt. And your sweatpants, I want a look at that knee before you do any more damage to it." Somehow a black doctor's bag had appeared in the man's hands. It looked distrustful.

Because he honestly did want to get back to the case, Tony stood and stripped down to his boxer-briefs. He forced himself to stand calmly, face neutral, eyes unfocused.

"You needn't play perfect with me, Anthony. If you want to whine or grumble a little, it's perfectly natural. You can't scare me off."

Tony brightened.

A challenge. And a rare one at that. He didn't get to practice his whining often.

As Ducky disinfected and cleaned the edges of the wound on his back and side, then produced copious amounts of white gauze pads that he taped over the entire mess, Tony fidgeted. He also moaned, complained in as high-pitched a voice as he could manage, and generally did not stop a constant stream of inane, annoying griping the entire time the doctor worked.

At one point, Ducky poked him in the middle of the raw, oozing scrape.

Tony's bitching turned momentarily into an unintended yelp. Sizing up his opponent, he narrowed his eyes briefly and returned to his complaints. The good doctor looked guilty for the one probably purposeful poke. He'd never win at this rate.

"Anthony, I am done with your side. Now sit down and let me have a look at your knee." The 'and shut the hell up' wasn't uttered, but it seemed implied.

Tony sat.

He did not shut the hell up.

* * *

Gibbs listened to them bicker as he grabbed his bag and headed to the bathroom to wash up and change.

When he emerged, Ducky was exiting DiNozzo's bedroom, black bag in hand. The two walked further from the detective's door by mute agreement. Gibbs raised an eyebrow in question.

"I can't see any evidence that the truck caused internal injuries – he has some painfully bruised ribs, though those could be from your altercation the night before just as easily. The bruising and superficial damage to the entire right side of his body is extensive, but certainly not life threatening."

"And?"

"It's impossible to be certain about the lad's knee without proper scans. He seems able to move it, though it comes with great pain. Not that he shows it. I have a feeling I will forever regret inviting him to whine as I treated what he terms a scrape. Now he'll be hounding me with paper cuts to better hide whatever massive injuries he's quietly sustained."

"That sounds long-term, Duck."

"Hmm, yes, it rather does, doesn't it? I wonder where that concept came from." Ducky smiled.

Gibbs did not. "What else?"

"That's really it, Jethro."

Gibbs waited.

Sighing, the doctor gave in. "If you were to look at the damage to his side, particularly where the skin was removed…well, it was very clean."

"So, he did some of his own doctoring." That didn't seem like such a bad thing.

"Yes, he actually did care for it rather well, such as he could reach it. But the edges were too smooth. And the small amount of tissue repair I would have expected over the last day was largely missing. It was almost as if he'd scrubbed at it in the shower. Not with his hand or a towel, but with sandpaper."

"There's one of those stones on the side of his tub."

Long used to Gibbs' way of speaking, Ducky translated, "A pumice stone. Yes, that could have done it. But Jethro, the pain that would be involved in such an action…"

He didn't have time for this shit. They had a case to solve, the detective was fit for duty, that's all that mattered. He shoved this new disturbing DiNozzo revelation ruthlessly aside. "Later."

Tony reentered the room, freshly dressed and without crutches. "Ready to roll?"

"Let's get the hell out of here. DiNozzo, you got a car we can take?"

The detective brightened. "Oh, I've got a car."

"Good. Ducky, you head over to the precinct and have your talk with the MEs. We'll meet you there when we're done at the clinic."

He headed out the apartment door without waiting for agreement, but was stopped by Ducky.

"Jethro, one more thing."

Shit. No more things. Time to go. "What?"

"Might I see your phone?"

Gibbs produced his cell from out of a pocket.

Ducky snatched it. "Thank you, I'll be taking that back." Looking at Tony, he advised, "You might want to keep a spare on you. Gibbs is notoriously hard on the devices, and is an absolute thief when he's without."

Gibbs stalked out of the apartment.

Time to get back on track. They had a case to solve.

* * *

The trip to the clinic wasn't as painful as it could have been. The main roads were mostly plowed, and Tony's Corvette took to the snow better than one might expect.

Tony himself took to Gibbs driving the Corvette better than the Special Agent had expected. There was some token resistance, but the kid knew he couldn't trust his bum knee to have the reaction time that might be necessary on rough road conditions. Especially with a manual.

Gibbs kept his expression flat, but was experiencing something near to nostalgia as he tooled around in the little sports car. It reminded him of an old yellow Challenger he once fooled around with, bought for cheap after it was banged up in an accident.

A sobering thought, as he flashed to a mixture of images from the pileup on the highway. What his own memory couldn't supply, the damn news clip had.

He cut off that line of thought before it could result in anything. It had nothing to do with the case.

Gibbs parked, and the two men entered the clinic. The waiting room chairs were starting to fill up with frostbite, bruises and cuts, and a few flu cases.

Making their way to the nurses' desk, Gibbs flashed his ID at the middle-aged blond working patient check-in. "Gibbs, NCIS. My office called ahead with a warrant for Keith Collins' records."

She nodded distractedly. "I'll page Ms. Narcutti, the administrator for this clinic. Just a moment."

Willing to wait, Gibbs politely stepped aside. DiNozzo eyed him, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. He'd have seen it, too, if the wait was longer than two minutes, but thankfully Ms. Narcutti showed up quickly.

"Gentlemen, if you'll follow me?" Came the no-nonsense greeting. They were led back beyond the clinic rooms into an area that was calmer and more office-like. "There's been a slight change of plans."

"Mhmm." There was a distinct lack of files in the lady's hands.

"Dr. Solas found out about the warrant, and has asked to give you the files personally."

"He was Collins' primary physician here?" Tony asked, as Gibbs kept quiet.

"Not exactly. He was the doctor Mr. Collins came here to see, but he's a psychologist, not a general practitioner. Here we are now."

The compact, efficient admin led them into a medium-sized office complete with couch.

Gibbs scowled, and saw a small tic of displeasure cross DiNozzo's face as well.

Shrinks.

A tall, vaguely Hispanic-looking man with brown hair and small, wire-rimmed glasses rose and rounded a desk, extending his hand towards Gibbs. "Doctor Cyrus Solas."

Gibbs accepted and returned the handshake. Firm, for a headshrinker. "Gibbs, NCIS." He jerked his head to the right. "DiNozzo, Baltimore Homicide."

Solas had the sad basset hound eyes down pat. "I was very sorry to learn of Keith's death. He was a good boy, on his way to being an outstanding young man."

Ms. Narcutti lovingly patted the doctor on the hand.

Interesting.

DiNozzo looked over at the other person in the room, a pasty, portly guy in his mid-twenties seated in the corner. "And who's this?"

Solas glanced in the direction indicated. "My intern, Nick Masolat. He also knew Keith, though only briefly. Nick's been my shadow for the last three months."

Gibbs prodded, "And Keith was here for…"

"Ah, please, have a seat."

Tony perched on the blue couch as though he'd be happy to jump off at the slightest opportunity. Gibbs sank down on the other end of the not quite ratty couch. Nick stayed in his chair in the corner – Gibbs was tempted to put a dunce cone on the intern's head – while Solas reseated himself behind the moderately-sized desk, and Ms. Narcutti perched on the desk itself, her short skirt rising far enough to catch the young detective's attention.

Resisting the urge to smack him on the back of the head, Gibbs tossed a pointed glance at the shrink. They were all seated. Time for the story.

"I'm sure you're aware that Keith's mother passed away. She had a small life insurance plan that went to her son after her death. It would have allowed him a few luxuries in another path of life, but he chose to attend the Academy, and has lived fairly frugally since, as he was raised."

Tony butted in, "How much?"

"About a hundred thousand, though almost half that went to pay off her medical costs and the funeral."

The good doctor knew quite a bit about the boy's financial situation. "Do you know who Keith's beneficiary is?"

"Not for certain, but he'd talked about donating the rest of the money to a cancer research organization, so if he had a will drawn up, I'd assume he would have directed the funds there."

Gibbs shared a brief glance with DiNozzo. They'd check, but if that was true, the money was not a likely reason for murder.

Solas continued, "Keith wanted to be an ordinary kid. A regular midshipman. He didn't throw his money around, didn't spend it at all that I know of except to come here."

"His medical care would've been covered on campus."

"Yes, he chose to come here because he was embarrassed, and could afford the rates our clinic offers for phobia counseling."

Ms. Narcutti opted into the conversation. "Dr. Solas specializes in phobias. He's amazing."

DiNozzo kept a pleasant smile on his face, but made a strange half-gagging sound in the back of this throat.

Gibbs tried to keep the conversation on track. "And Collins' phobia?"

"A simple case of arachnophobia. It wasn't extreme. In another life, another intended line of work, he likely would have been able to live with it without help."

But a life in the service did now allow for many weaknesses. Gibbs needed more details. "What do you mean by it not being extreme?"

"He could manage himself. No running and screaming, no irrational reactions to photos or drawings – though he would experience discomfort, especially at movies or video of spiders or webs. He wasn't on track to spend a lot of time in combat situations where a second's jump back might cause him grief, but with this life you never know…"

True. Anyone could get called into combat, even a gifted linguist. Especially these days. And poking around in a militarized zone and suddenly jumping back or shouting could have all sorts of undesirable consequences when everyone around you has machine guns.

"We were making progress. And, due to the schedule Keith kept, I did agree to some irregular meetings, sometimes out of the office."

"Did you two have dinner the night Collins was killed?"

"Yes, at Bowser's."

One mystery solved. "Did you often spend time with him outside of the office?"

"He tried to meet me every Friday evening he could. If he could get out early, we would generally meet in the office. If he was a little later, we often met over dinner. Phobia counseling is often done in the field, so to speak, so we also had a few desensitization trips."

"Purposefully seeking out spiders? Sounds like a bad want ad," Tony said.

Smiling, Solas agreed, but his face quickly fell again. "Nick, if you'd give us a moment, please?"

Nick looked like he'd rather not, but he shuffled out of the room at his master's command.

Solas merely glanced at the pertly helpful admin, who excused herself to keep watch for the doctor's next appointment and stall them if necessary.

Alone, he continued. "It's easier to keep a professional distance from patients in the office. Spending so much time with him in social milieus – honestly, I'd come to think of him as a friend."

Gibbs examined the man's face. He did look honestly upset. "How did Collins' phobia start?"

"Unclear, but phobias of that kind are extremely common. There may have been a trigger to set it off when he was little, but some people just seem naturally prone to certain fears, especially those found in nature. Spiders, snakes, dogs, etcetera."

Tony stood and started wandering the office, his eyes glancing over framed certificates, books and office minutiae. "So Doc, what can you tell us about Collins in general?"

Solas' eyes tracked the detective's movements, but he made no complaint. "A very serious, dependable young man. He wasn't very social, but it wasn't from awkwardness or inability. He was just abandoned one too many times."

"Abandoned by whom?"

"His father, certainly. His mother, in a way, after she died. His father had no relatives, and whatever distant relations existed on his mother's side disappeared when she got sick. He didn't trust easily, but he was very friendly from what I saw."

"Did Collins say anything to you that indicated he was uncomfortable around anyone, or that threats had been made against him?"

Gibbs let Tony continue what was turning into an interrogation rather than an interview. He seemed to have a bug up his butt about something.

Solas replied easily, "No, I can't think of anything, and I've been trying." He gathered a pile of folders from his desk and offered them to DiNozzo. "Here are his clinic files and copies of some of my session notes. We talked about the death of his mother, general daily life, the pressures of exams sometimes, but generally focused on the phobia – experiences with it, his fears of what it could lead to, new techniques to diminish the strength of it."

"Did you ever go on campus?"

"No, I never did. He always came here."

"Were you aware of any other medical problems Collins suffered from?"

"No, not at all. He was very healthy."

"Why would he have been in that alley at that time of night?"

Solas shook his head. "I really don't know. I don't know what he did after our sessions, or our dinners. Maybe met up with friends, or went for a drink. Maybe he just went back to campus."

"Where did you go after you left Bowser's?"

"The clinic is funded by the hospital two blocks over. Since we're technically on staff there, sometimes we get called to pull extra shifts. I went from dinner to the hospital, and worked an overnight."

Gibbs let the peppering of questions go on for another five minutes before he deemed no further information – useful or otherwise – would be gained from continuing. He interrupted Tony, who was now alternating between pacing and advancing upon the doctor as though stalking prey. "Thank you for your time, Doctor Solas. If you think of anything else, please give us a call." He rose and passed a card to the doctor, who also rose and gave Gibbs a card of his own.

"And if you can think of any other questions, please don't hesitate to call me. I really would like to be of help."

Nodding, Gibbs left, Tony following.

Ms. Narcutti and Nick the Dough Boy were right outside the door.

Silently, the two men made their way back to the parking lot, Tony starting to flip through the folder as they went.

When they were safely shut back in the car, Gibbs turned to ask, "The hell?"

"Something about him I don't like."

There was something about him Gibbs didn't like either, but he was pretty sure it was just a general shrink thing. "He seemed like he honestly cared."

"Yeah. He did," DiNozzo agreed in a frustrated voice. "Maybe it's just a shrink thing. I try to avoid them."

Gibbs held back a smile. "Anything useful in the file?"

"Don't think so, mostly notes about the phobia stuff." He continued to browse through with a discontented look on his face.

Gibbs reached for his phone, realizing it wasn't there too late. His scowl was interrupted by Tony's hand thrust into his face with the detective's own cell. Gibbs grabbed it, but figured he'd have to dial dispatch to get through, since he didn't know his probies' direct lines.

"Ducky put his number, Abby's, and entered #1 and #2's in there, too."

Bemusedly, Gibbs called the office and commanded his team to check out if Collins had a will or not.

Tony looked up. "Ask them to check to see if any of the other victims went to the same clinic. I emailed them a list of the victim's names early this morning just in case."

Since he agreed, Gibbs so ordered, then hung up and started the Corvette.


	16. Chapter 16

_Just a little guy of a chapter tonight, but hopefully a longer one next time. _

* * *

Tony strode through the halls of his precinct feeling lighter than he had in weeks. Months, maybe. He had a brusque, growly, impatient fed at his side. Literally pacing right along at his side. If he stopped or turned, Gibbs would stop or turn too – maybe look at him like he was a slow-witted child for goofing off, but he'd move in the same direction nonetheless.

True, it was mostly because Gibbs had no idea where they were headed, but still. It was a potent feeling.

They passed other cops, other detectives, most of whom greeted him. He cheerily returned their greetings. Today, he didn't have to worry about looking too friendly with anyone. Mallace and his toadies weren't focused on what cops Tony was talking to. Just on Gibbs.

And what could Mallace possibly do to Gibbs?

A wide grin spread across Tony's face, infectious to those he passed. He pulled a bright red gerbera daisy out of a bunch gracing an absent aide worker's desk and presented it to the first female he passed. It just happened to be pretty Sarah Vogel from records.

She took the daisy and slapped him on the ass as he walked by.

Sarah had a good thirty years on Tony, but that didn't stop him from considering turning around and chasing after her for the pure fun of it.

But he was on a case.

No.

_They_ were on a case. Him and his fed partner, who had his own resources and his own office, blissfully unrelated to this one.

DiNozzo knew he was overestimating this connection and this freedom he was feeling. But he didn't care. He purposefully surrendered to it, illusionary or not.

It had been a long time since he felt happy, and he'd worked hard from an early age to make happy one of his natural states of being.

This place was getting to him.

It was time to move on once this case was solved. He didn't want to give Mallace the satisfaction of driving him out, but if he left after successfully solving a serial case that no one else had believed in, Mallace would be seen as the failure. And Tony would have his pick of detective positions in other cities.

Half-dancing down the hall and perilously close to breaking out into song at the station house, Tony opted for the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator and jogged down, eager to find Dr. Mallard and see if he had discovered anything useful.

Turning one last corner, DiNozzo entered the domain of his station's ME, one of many throughout the city. He spotted Ducky and the elderly Doc Estein in a corner, speaking rapidly in low tones. "Mark! How goes the war?"

"Never-ending, Tony. Are you the one who sicced this tenacious bastard on me?"

Gibbs tensed, but Tony shot him a look to forestall any counterattacks. No insult was intended, it was just the way the man spoke.

Ignoring the Baltimore doc, Gibbs looked to his own ME. "Got anything, Duck?"

"Not yet, Jethro, but I begin to believe this man is not a fool, and we are going over the results of the other cases together. Give us a few more hours." Ducky had apparently already learned to speak Mark's language; the other man cracked a rare smile at being termed probably not a fool.

Tony shrugged and turned to leave, Gibbs beside him. Even if they couldn't find anything, at least someone was looking. He'd rather have a potential line of investigation firmly shut down than continue wondering if he just didn't have the technical expertise to recognize something important that was lying there in plain sight.

Jogging back up the stairs, mood still light, he grinned at meeting little Leo at the top of the stairs, who was scurrying towards the captain's office with a precarious stack of files. Leo flashed him a quick grin back before reassuming his normal harried mien and continuing along his way.

A sideways look at Gibbs didn't reveal whether or not the man had seen anything strange in that brief exchange. There was no reason to assume he had, so Tony continued on to his desk in the Homicide room.

He moaned in only partially overdramatized pain at seeing the additional mountains of paperwork now stacked haphazardly on the left-hand side. Another detective passing by, Sturgis, slapped a consoling hand on his back in solidarity, and Tony worked to exchange a pained glance with him rather than display the physical pain he was feeling at the friendly touch on his newly bandaged injury.

He pulled it off well enough for Sturgis, who kept on walking, but perhaps not well enough for Gibbs, who was now looking at him rather intently.

Falling into his chair, Tony indicated the same one Gibbs had used on his last visit. "Feel free to make yourself at home. I need ten minutes to go through these and check in on a few leads for other cases."

"How many open cases you got?"

"More than enough. You really only work on one case at a time?" It seemed decadent.

"Usually." Gibbs still stood, glancing around the room with what seemed to Tony an overly penetrating gaze given the mundane nature of the room. Abruptly, he turned and left. "Going for coffee," he called out over his shoulder.

Well, okay then.

Tony turned his attentions to his voice mails and powered through. He'd returned two calls and filled out several stacks of forms by the time Gibbs returned ten minutes later, eyebrow raised.

"You just filling in random words?"

"No, this crap is all routine. I can fly through these with my eyes closed and my mouth busy somewhere else." He flashed a grin. "Talking, of course."

Gibbs thrust a cup at him.

Taking it, Tony sniffed cautiously. Appreciatively, he carefully sipped the steaming hot chocolate while eyeing Gibbs.

The special agent shrugged. "Asked the cantina guy what you usually got. He listed off pretty much everything but coffee." That Tony was a fool for not drinking the one substance Gibbs apparently condoned was obviously implied.

Tony raised his cup. "Thank you. Good choice."

Gibbs half-shrugged. Could this be the expression that passed for mild embarrassment on the man's face? Tony supposed the man might not hear verbal thanks very often.

Or be in the position to be thanked?

Letting that thought meander freely at the back of his head, DiNozzo quickly filled out two more pages and left the rest of the papers to be dealt with later – they weren't urgent. Stacking the others in an outbox for the mail kid, he stood and faced Gibbs. "You got any ideas as to what you want to pursue next?" Tony had a few of his own, but was willing to reprioritize to some extent.

The look on Gibbs' face indicated he mostly definitely did have a decisive opinion as to what they'd tackle next, but Tony's phone rang before Gibbs could elaborate. With an apologetic glance, he answered the unfamiliar number. "DiNozzo."

"Detective DiNozzo, this is Director Morrow of NCIS."

Tony straightened. This was new.

"Sir?"

Gibbs' eyes focused on him with steely interest at the honorific.

"I need to speak with Agent Gibbs, detective. Dr. Mallard indicated his phone had been destroyed, but that he might be reachable through you."

Bemused at playing assistant, and mildly impressed at the fact that the director would bother to call Gibbs at all, Tony handed the phone over. "Your director."

Taking the phone, the special agent answered, "Gibbs."

There were a series of rapid-fire expressions crossing the man's face as he listened. Annoyance, concern, anger, and worry – perhaps a little rage and a little fear.

"Sir, I'm in the middle of a case." A pause. "No, but I do believe there is the threat of a new victim any day now." A series of, "No…no…yes…no…sir…" followed, Gibbs obviously reacting to whatever logic or command Morrow was throwing at him.

The call ended with an, "Understood." Gibbs ended the call and pocketed the phone, looking torn. He turned to Tony. "Caught another case."

DiNozzo's stomach tightened. Had Mallace somehow gotten to NCIS command? Was Gibbs being forced off this case?

Mouth dry, shoulders squared, he stood stock still and stared, waiting to be deserted.

* * *

Gibbs recognized the same stillness in DiNozzo that he had seen at the academy. It was unnerving, though he would never admit it. Apparently it wasn't solely tied to an abrupt physical touch, since he was a good five feet from the man.

He let a minute pass, but still DiNozzo stood watching him, motionless but not tense. Usually the detective vibrated, even when absorbed. Hell, even when asleep. But all of his energy was funneled into singular attention to Gibbs' face, now.

What was he thinking?

Making a snap gut decision, he announced, "You're with me. Grab your gear."

Tony blinked, and the moment shattered. "We got another body?"

"Let's hope not. Kid went missing nearby."

The vibrating was back. "On base? That why they called you and not us or the FBI?"

"Nope. At a boarding school nearby. Both parents are deployed. Makes it NCIS jurisdiction."

"So your director's pulling you off of this case?"

"Nah, there's just nobody else closer. Need someone there ASAP. Situation's unclear, maybe the kid just took off, maybe he's asleep under a tree somewhere. Director's sending another team, but they won't make it for three hours."

A subtle relaxation overtook the detective's body. Gibbs read it as, "Oh, thank god" though he was pleased that DiNozzo didn't say any such thing aloud.

"You don't have to drag me along, I can keep working the case from my end."

Gibbs paused to consider his next words.

He glanced around the room and caught sight Detective Delilla, whose red eyes and hangdog face sure seemed to be sporting a whopper of a hangover. Said red eyes were also glaring pokers into Tony's back.

What was it Leo had said? A good detective, but not a good man?

Suddenly he wondered about the good detective part.

Going with his gut, he finally answered, "I want you there."

Eyebrow raised, Tony asked, "Because of my charming wit and amazing skills?"

"Because it's a military school – middle and high school kids." Gibbs had little knowledge of the places, assumed they were like academies for younger kids, but Tony's reactions earlier made him question that theory. The detective might have some insight that could prove helpful.

"Oh, goody. That sounds like fun. Let me just grab my thumbscrews for the ride…"

Gibbs grabbed DiNozzo and propelled him forward, taking care not to push too hard. So far the kid hadn't been limping, but he knew from personal experience that knees didn't magically heal themselves overnight.

He felt Delilla's hot gaze on their backs as they left, and spotted Mallace's square little head peering out at them with displeasure from his office as they passed.

He suddenly wanted to get DiNozzo the hell out of this building.


	17. Chapter 17

"Every school is different, Gibbs. Just because I went to a place with a freakishly identical uniform doesn't mean I'll have any insights into what's going on here." Tony paused, glancing at the orderly little defiant ones as they paraded to and from class, bodies complying with the rules but eyes in disarray.

He didn't want to be here, but was unwilling to abandon his new partner. Especially when he was wanted.

Huh. _Wanted._ Gibbs wanted him to be here.

He would've thought he'd be pleased to hear that, but it was surprisingly uncomfortable to think about. Almost as uncomfortable as being back in a place like this.

He believed what he said – all schools were different – but this one was giving off major vibes of a disturbing nature.

"I'm not actually all that good with children. The younger ones especially." Not that there were anything he'd term children here.

Gibbs grunted and continued his brisk pace to the headmaster's office.

Tony cast his attention around, needing something to focus on, and landed on the kid who'd been assigned to escort them from the gate.

The young aide was doing an admirable job of keeping up and still having enough breath left to spout off school facts. Tony figured the poor guy was regularly stuck with giving tours to prospective well-off families. He would have paid more attention out of sympathy if the kid hadn't born such a striking resemblance to Rolf from _The Sound of Music_. It was creepy to look at him with his shiny blond hair in his perfect little uniform.

"The Maurinen Military School traces its roots back to the 1940s, the oldest military academy in the Baltimore area. While we do have a valued history of taking in troubled youths and turning out fine young men, the school is also a college-prep dream, allowing students to study full-time without the distractions of the modern day world."

The walking brochure had now focused all his attention on DiNozzo, apparently sensing a potential weakness. His pale blue eyes followed relentlessly, and his steps came closer and closer until he nearly trod on the back of Tony's shoes.

"I know it can seem a harsh environment at first to those who are accustomed, but let me reassure you that it's really –"

Tony cut him off. "Kid, are you under the impression that I'm sixteen going on seventeen?"

"Sir?"

"Answer the damn question."

"No sir."

"Then shut the hell up and show us where to find the headmaster."

"Sir." Rolf agreed, and stepped ahead of them, even increasing the pace, the cheeky little bastard.

"Fewer military schools around every year, seems like," Gibbs said offhandedly.

Assuming Gibbs never did anything offhandedly, Tony grew suspicious. "Could be."

"Might make sense if the schools on the east coast all knew a little bit about each other. Probably compete."

"Makes sense."

"You remember this school's reputation?"

"That was a long time ago."

"That wasn't a no."

"No, it wasn't."

They'd reached the headmaster's offices. Rolf led them through the reception room and knocked on a huge mahogany door.

Tony's hand flexed.

"Enter!"

Rolf led them into a room that was obviously modeled after the Oval Office. A quick check of the pictures and certificates on the walls confirmed a suspicion he'd been harboring since driving through the first set of gates.

This particular military school was run by a man who had never been in the military. DiNozzo bet himself a month's salary that at least half the staff were posers, too. They might walk the Hollywood army walk, they might talk the recruiter talk, but they really had no idea what being in the service meant.

Not that Tony did, either, but he figured being a cop was closer than being an asshole making money off of screwing with kids' lives.

A bulky man rose from behind a massive desk and self-importantly introduced himself first. "Gentlemen. I am John McGuillen, headmaster of this school." He paused so that his magnificence could be appreciated.

Yep. Asshole.

Gibbs' posture was relaxed and he looked slightly friendly, nearly approachable. He couldn't be fooled by this tool, could he?

"Gibbs, NCIS." A jerk of the head, "DiNozzo." He handily did not mention DiNozzo wasn't a federal agent with jurisdiction over this case. "Hear you lost a kid?"

Tony cheered internally. Outwardly, he allowed a smirk aimed at the asshole, now sputtering that he had certainly not lost a child.

Gibbs deceptively laconic reply was, "Okay. So we should go?"

"Go? You just got here!"

"You just said the kid wasn't lost anymore. So I guess we should go." The special agent's voice was perfectly calm and reasonable.

This was entertaining. It might even become instructional at some point. Gibbs was one impressive bastard when he wanted to be.

"He is…not yet found."

Gibbs smiled and ducked his head a little. "Well…that's just confusing. Either you've got a missing kid or you don't."

Hesitating, the headmaster finally allowed, "There is a missing child."

"So, tell me about this kid you lost."

"Falk!" McGuillen barked, which urged another staff member forward.

"Steven Vaughn, age 12, below average student. Enrolled a little over a year ago. No elected social activities. Parents' primary residence is in North Carolina, but they are currently traveling overseas. We've been unable to contact them as of yet, but Mr. Vaughn's personal assistant assures us there is no chance they came home early to see Steven."

Gibbs prodded the assistant, "Last time he was seen?"

"0600 for roll call and breakfast. He has an independent workout scheduled for his 7am class, and so was not reported missing until he failed to show up for his 8am class. His roommate, a Peter Donners, claims to have no knowledge of Vaughn's whereabouts."

"I want to talk to his friends."

"No friends to speak of."

Gibbs' own freakish friendliness began to look more like menacingly irritated.

Tony shot out a question. "What kind of problem kid is he?"

Falk tried to scowl, but it was a pathetic attempt to someone who'd spent the last three days with Gibbs. "What do you mean by that?"

"Military boarding school – all your kids must have some kind of problem, right? Parents couldn't handle them, or didn't want 'em around?"

Falk kept up the disapproving glare, but his boss' eyes held a spark of interest.

Tony sidled up to the desk and leaned in towards McGuillen as Rolf tensed behind him. Interesting. "It's okay. You can tell me. I know the score. Bunch of lazy little shits whose parents couldn't be bothered to keep them in line. I get it." He nodded slowly. "You deserve a medal for mopping up other people's messes. Making their trash smell better, really. A public service."

As Gibbs moved to advance – possibly to smack him a good one – Tony gave him a low hand gesture. _Stay._

Amazingly, he actually did.

"Who wants to ship off a kid that's not a pain in the ass? Come on, headmaster, what was Vaughn's poison? Theft? Drugs? Fire?" Tony held the other man's eyes as he talked, voice getting quieter and faux-silky as he talked, exuding scum.

He crooked a cruel little smile. "Did he like to peek in windows? Pull the wings off of bugs?" Eyelids half-closed as though the thought disgusted him – or excited him – he lowered his head below the headmaster's level. Voice as smooth as chocolate crème, he continued, "I need to know what kind of a piece of shit we're dealing with."

McGuillen liked what he was seeing. He nodded, and tried to twist into the same sinister, sinuous pose Tony held. It didn't work; he looked like a fool in a ringmaster's uniform. "He was damaged. From birth, his parents said. Always needy, always crying, always hanging off of them like a monkey. A disease-ridden little parasite monkey." Spittle flew with the last sentence.

This guy was a real treat.

Tony shifted slightly, enough to catch Gibbs' eye. If he read the look right, Gibbs was cognizant enough of what Tony was doing to let him keep at it, but not fully comprehending the tactic.

The special agent moved to stand in front of Rolf, which DiNozzo found naively sweet. Rolf did too, judging from the nearly imperceptible smile gracing his face.

"_Needy_," Tony drew out the word, making it feel like filth in his mouth. "Disgusting."

Falk was probably not a stand-up guy considering he was working for a sleaze like this, but he was smart enough to start inching back, away from the rabid creature McGuillen was so close to unveiling himself as being.

"You could smell it on him. The stench of worthlessness."

"Have you trained him out of it yet?"

"You can't eradicate an inborn flaw, but yes, you can train them not to show it. And he's taken to the training fairly well." McGuillen collected himself, restraining whatever he almost said next. "I am actually surprised he went missing. He doesn't have the ambition to run away. Something may have happened to him."

_Weakling,_ his tone implied. _You can train the boy how to behave, but you can't make him worthwhile._

Tony smiled, face full of teeth. "I'll find him," he promised. What happened after he found the kid, though – that might not be so pleasant for the asshole. They smiled at each other, McGuillen pleased to find a seemingly like mind, DiNozzo contemplating fantasies of a not-nice nature.

"He dormed in the Browne building, 134A. His roommate's there right now, waiting in case you have questions."

Tony nodded his scum-self's appreciation and turned to go, collecting a remarkably mute Gibbs as he left.

Rolf chose to follow them.

Tony strode out of the administration building and down the walkway, back to the main directory, carved in bronze and situated under an imposing statute of what looked like a marble Mussolini.

Quietly, Gibbs pointed out a spot on the map. "Browne building."

"Don't need it." Tony rotated his head to look frankly at Rolf. "Did you get that?"

Rolf broke protocol and grinned widely, suddenly looking more like a seventeen-year-old Dennis the Menace rather than a perfect 1960s Hollywood ideal of a blonde boy solider. He held up a small recorder that had been tucked in his pocket.

DiNozzo matched the grin for a moment. He gestured around him and turned back to Gibbs. "These places are expensive. The parents that take the time to actually visit the campus before they send their kids here, they care a little about where their kids end up. At least lip service. The tour guides, usually seniors, carry recorders with so they don't have to remember every little thing or be seen taking notes. Then they can send follow ups with personal details, write up reports for the recruiters. Results in more sales."

The kid slipped the recorder back into his pocket, as though afraid they might take it from him.

Fat chance. Tony would revel in taking down someone like McGuillen, but Rolf needed the experience.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "You can get him removed with that?"

"No. He didn't give enough away for that. And half the parents would agree with what he said. Most of the other half wouldn't pay any attention."

Rolf spoke up, "But we keep files. Sometimes you get enough to make a case to the school board, get someone removed. Sometimes you use it for…persuasion."

"You mean blackmail," Gibbs frowned.

Tony was fairly certain he'd grown up differently than his new partner.

Expression sobering, he addressed Rolf. "Where's Vaughn?"

"Decent chance he's in the equipment room off the fencing salle." The kid cast a meaningful glance at Gibbs.

Tony shook his head, "He's okay. Let's go see what kind of shape Steve's in."

"Stevie. He still goes by Stevie. He's not holding up so well." Rolf paused, as if unwilling to admit a grave secret aloud. "He's just a kid."

Understanding, Tony indicated Rolf should lead the way. He had a good idea of what to expect.

* * *

Gibbs kept up a stream of curse words in his head. He wasn't even sure what he was cursing. Everything. This entire situation was _wrong._

He'd had a peg on the buffoonery of the headmaster from the moment he set eyes on the man. DiNozzo had warned him before they arrived at the school that military boarding academies followed what they considered a military way of life. That didn't mean that the majority of their staff had ever served.

Gibbs would eat his entire dead car if McGuillen had ever been in the service. Or if the man had ever been of service. To anyone.

Falk was trained to react like a military man, but his training didn't last when he felt fear – if he knew his commanding officer was going to blow, he should have worked to stop it, worked to expose the bastard the jerk actually was, or stuck by him. Backing off like a coward was no military method. And he'd slipped from military time to civilian.

Then DiNozzo had slithered into a different self, at home with endearing himself to scuzz.

It was effective, but repulsive.

It was also impressive. Not that he'd ever tell the detective that.

He followed behind the young man and Tony as they entered a gym of some kind and continued to a door on the far side of the room.

Their guide rapped twice against the heavy mahogany door and opened it.

DiNozzo flexed his hand again.

Propped in a large window allowing copious amounts of light into the storage room, a young boy stared at them from dull, colorless eyes.

He may have been twelve, but he looked nine or ten, and small even for that age. His uniform jacket was slung over a nearby shelf, but the rest of him looked clean and unrumpled.

Though he didn't consider himself prone to being a bleeding heart, Gibbs did feel an immediate pull towards the boy.

Kids were different.

He glanced over at DiNozzo, who had shuttered his expression and seemed inclined to let Gibbs take over.

Fine with him.

Approaching slowly, he tried to keep his voice easy despite the fact that he could now see the boy's crossed arms held what looked like an old-fashioned dagger. "Lotta people out lookin' for you."

Silence.

"You okay? Hurt anywhere?"

Stevie shook his head no. He returned his dead gaze to the window. What the hell was he looking at? There wasn't anything out there but overly manicured lawn.

Gibbs sat on a stack of floormats and considered his options. "Don't suppose you want to pass that knife over to me for safekeeping?"

The little head snapped back to watch him warily. "No."

"Okay. I'm kinda hungry. You hungry?" Kids always seemed willing to eat. Maybe he could trade the weapons for food.

Stevie shrugged.

DiNozzo tilted his head to the side, eyes never leaving the boy outlined in the window. "Rolf, can you scare up some grub?"

When had the detective learned the kid's name?

The blonde kid nodded and slipped out the door silently. Gibbs half expected another "Sir!" from the boy acknowledging Tony's near-command, but none came. Maybe a purposeful omission, for Stevie moved his gaze to Tony as if questioning his position.

Tony lifted his chin at the boy in acknowledgement, but said nothing. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall.

Gibbs tried again. "You got something troubling you, Stevie? Somebody after you?"

Nothing.

"You want to talk to your parents?"

"You found my parents?" That got a bit of a reaction out of him.

"School office is trying to reach them. Were you afraid they were lost?"

"No. They're not lost. They left. There's a difference." He deflated.

"When was the last time you talked to them?"

"Few months ago." Stevie seemed near tears, though he turned his head to hide it, pretending indifference.

"I'm sure they miss you."

The boy let out a strangled half-laugh, half-sob, staring at Gibbs in amusement and despair. "You're new here."

DiNozzo laughed at the deadpan delivery. "He is," he agreed.

"You're not?" Stevie clarified.

"Next campus over." Tony strode over and sat next to Gibbs on the piled floormats, though he pushed himself until his back was flat against the wall.

"Thing is, no matter what you're up to right now, or what you're planning to do – doesn't do you any good."

"How's that?" The young boy hardened suddenly.

"Well, say you're really thinking about hurting yourself. That doesn't do you any good. It won't affect the staff here, they'll just say you were unstable. And it probably won't affect your parents much."

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs would have smacked the detective a good one if he hadn't been sure it would not endear him to Stevie.

Tony shrugged, eyes as dead as the boy's. "It won't. He knows it. You want to keep treating him like a child? You'll probably talk him down, get him out. But he'll just be "behaving" again, you're not going to fix anything that's going on under the trained act."

He turned back to Stevie. "We could start a troupe. A traveling acting troupe."

The boy snorted, "More like a circus."

"I bet I could swallow fire. I always wanted to try. I blew fire once at a frat party, but I don't recommend it if you like your eyebrows." His mouth ticked up in a grin, but his eyes stayed as dull as the boy's remained.

He returned to his previous topic, undeterred. "So hurting yourself gets you nothing. And if you do a half-assed job of it, you get what – stuck in the infirmary with even less to occupy you and more time to think about the fact that they aren't coming for you?"

Stevie seemed riveted in place, unable to look away from Tony.

"So option two, hurt someone else. Strike out. Physically, maybe, but that's just cruel and stupid. And you don't strike me as cruel or stupid. Option three, misbehave, try to hurt your parents by giving a bad reputation to their name."

Tony paused, raised his feet up to rest on the windowsill by Stevie's. The boy tensed, but didn't object when Tony made no further movements.

"I tried that. It took me a while. I was mostly stuck in the mindset of, 'if I behave, they'll come for me.' But after a while, when no one came, I tried my damndest to get their attention. To get anyone's full attention."

"What happened?" the boy asked.

"Got disowned," Tony said shortly. "No more hurting the family name. Well, not as much, anyway. If he'd been smarter, he'd have had my name changed first."

"Just 'he?' What about your mom?"

"She died."

"Oh." Stevie seemed on the verge of saying something, but stopped himself. Instead, he turned the dagger over and over in his hands, as though searching it for answers.

"I see you're more a knife man," Tony said approvingly. "So's my partner, here. That one yours?"

"Sort of. I'm not big enough to compete against the other kids my age in a lot of sports. But I'm good at fencing. My weaponsmaster is teaching me to fight with a parrying dagger."

"Nice!" Tony's eyebrows shot up and he infused a great deal of enthusiasm in his voice. "That's impressive."

Gibbs wanted to speak up, but was afraid he'd break whatever tenuous connection the two had going.

"Thanks. What about you?" Stevie asked, almost shyly.

"Oh, I was the more traditional jock. I wasn't as small as you when I was twelve, but I was scrawny as all hell until I hit fifteen. So mostly I ran. I was fast. Then when I started bulking up a little, I played basketball, baseball, eventually football too."

"Did you play…before?"

"No. I didn't. I didn't even go to school regularly. That was one thing that was really hard for me to adjust to. Going from basically no schedule at all to an unforgiving schedule that left pretty much no free time at all."

"That does sound like it would suck. I guess at least I had school and lessons before. A lot of this isn't so different."

"No," Tony agreed seriously. "A lot of this isn't really so different when you think about it. How often were they home?"

Stevie shrugged. "One week out of the month. Something like that. But at least I saw them. Could pretend…" He turned to face the window again.

Gibbs could feel Tony gathering himself. In another person, he'd take it as preparation for some massive impending physical action. For DiNozzo, apparently it was working up to sharing buried emotion.

"We didn't know my mom was sick until too late. Cancer. I guess she didn't feel good for a long time, but covered it by drinking more and more. Can't blame her, really. She went to the doctor a few times but they passed it off as fatigue, told her to take a vacation." He smiled a scarily blank smile. "Because another vacation was obviously going to make all the difference."

Stevie straightened a bit in the window, pulling himself up straighter and moving to sit cross-legged, attentive.

Gibbs was tempted to do the same. Or to run away. Tony sounded twelve himself for a moment.

"So by the time they caught that it was cancer, it had eaten through half her body, and on top of that she'd killed most of her liver herself. But I was the sickest person in that household. Because I was happy when I got to play nursemaid. When she'd lay in bed, too weak to get out, and I'd fetch her whatever she wanted, read to her, entertain her. She called for me when she needed something, because she knew I'd be close by. It was heavenly. If your version of heavenly is darkly twisted."

Jesus.

A self-deprecating smile contorted the detective's face. Though he continued to carefully keep his gaze from Gibbs, he did meet the boy's eyes regularly.

"That doesn't sound half-bad. I don't think you should beat yourself up so much about being happy you had some time with her before she died," Stevie said, voice young but remarkably confident. "You helped her, you didn't hurt her. And…it might have meant something to her, too."

Man and boy looked at each other, searching for something. Gibbs wasn't sure what it was, but they both looked away at the same time, seemingly satisfied with what they found.

Rolf slipped back into the room, a stack of plastic-wrapped sandwiches in his hands and a canvas bag full of small milk cartons and apples slung over his shoulder. He sat at the floor by Tony's feet and passed out the bounty.

For someone who claimed he wasn't good with children, Tony certainly had a way with these particular pups.

Stevie, somewhat livelier than he had been, bit into a ham and cheese. "So then what?"

"So then my dad couldn't stand looking at me. He left for about a year, and I didn't see him again until he came home and told me to pack up and get ready for summer camp. I was actually excited. Then I ended up at a place just like this," he waved his hand around, "and stayed there until I went to college."

He perked up. "Now college, that's something to live for."

The three boys discussed college frats and sports and courses and girls with more and more animation while Gibbs slowly made his way through a chicken salad sandwich, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next.

Maybe his thoughts showed on his face, as a few minutes later Tony again turned the conversation to serious matters. "So here's the options, kiddo. We can spring you from this joint, say you were hurt, take you to the hospital so you can have some time to think outside of the campus. Or, I can probably get you transferred to another school if you think a change of scenery would help."

Stevie shook his head. "No, if I have to stay at one anyway, I'd prefer to stay here. At least I'm used to it."

"Then you're going to have to start being smarter about how you handle your emotions."

Gibbs internally started at the harsh command. The kid had barely started puberty. What the hell kind of advice was that?

Rolf nodded. "You're not alone here, not completely. You can't trust anybody – that's fine. Nobody here trusts someone else completely. But that doesn't mean you can't make friends. Even if they're just good-time friends. People to bitch with, play video games with, whatever."

Tony picked up, "It makes a bigger difference than you might think. Not just in taking your mind off of other stuff, but it makes you feel like you belong. At least a little. And a little goes a long way sometimes."

Gibbs had the uncomfortable impression that DiNozzo's life motto might be something close to, "A little goes a long way." He shoved the thought aside, it didn't matter to their case and it didn't matter to this situation. Dammit.

Rolf continued, "You picked up on how they want you to act really fast. That's good. Now just don't fall into the mindset of it. Keep yourself safe, inside."

"Pick something to work towards – pick it yourself, make it hard but not impossible to get. A place you want to go, something you want to be good at, a school you want to attend, whatever. Don't settle for other people's ideas of what you should be. You'll kill yourself to get there, and it won't be satisfying." Tony paused, then flashed the megawatt smile. "And it sure won't be any fun."

The young boy watched DiNozzo's face intently, as if memorizing it and the words coming out of his mouth.

Maybe he was.

Tony passed Stevie a business card with some handwritten info on the back, and elicited a promise from Rolf to at least check in on the younger boy from time to time.

Stevie stood. "I'll go find a teacher, say I fell asleep cleaning my gear in here." After a pause, he added a stiff, "Thanks," to Tony, as though he were unfamiliar with saying the word.

Then he put the dagger back in its case and slipped out the door.

Rolf followed, hopefully to keep an eye on the younger boy.

Gibbs turned to Tony, anger in his voice. "If Rolf and the other senior classmen knew where he was, why didn't they help?"

Tony shrugged, face slowly taking on pleasant features again. "More than likely he would have rejected it. Wasn't ready to hear it, not from his classmates."

He stretched.

"Better get going, back to the case. I want to check on the shrink's alibi."

Gibbs found himself working up to enraged, though he couldn't articulate to himself why. He grasped on to an easier reason, close at hand. "So we just leave? And if the kid takes off again, or decides to take his little experience with the knife any further?"

"I don't think he will."

Truth was, Gibbs didn't think he would either.

He stormed out of the small room, headed back towards the car.

Tony followed, hands in pockets, seemingly without a care in the world.

On the way back to the station, far away from the prying ears of the young cadets, Tony tried to sooth the new tension. "Gibbs, you know I was just talking back there, right? Making up whatever suited the situation." He gave a half laugh, bright and cheerful. "It's not like any of that was real."

At Gibbs' continued imposing silence, he shrugged and went to sleep.

Maybe.

Who could take anything about Detective Tony DiNozzo at face value?


	18. Chapter 18

Abby was miffed.

She had already decided not to like the Baltimore cop. In general she didn't bother to care about any of the probies or agents temporarily assigned to Gibbs' team. There wasn't much point since none of them but Burley had stuck it out past six months.

But DiNozzo was different, he'd _bruised_ Gibbs' face. He deserved to burn for that.

Though it was interesting that Gibbs seemed fine with having him here. Not particularly irritated or angry or even trying to shed an unwanted partner. Just…normal.

But that was beyond the point, it didn't matter how Gibbs was treating the jerk, she would hate him on principle. You don't damage Gibbs!

On the other hand, it wasn't wise to ignore Gibbs' impression of people. If he was willing to have the detective around, maybe she'd judged him too harshly.

Then there was the video.

Thank god Ducky had already made Gibbs call her before she saw it. Even having talked to him, she felt her stomach contract in terror and her eyes widen like saucers when Gibbs went over the edge.

It was good to see someone who could keep up with Gibbs, who could pull him back from the edge. But it wasn't the first time she'd seen that.

It _was_ the first time she'd ever seen anyone sit next to him, try to take care of him, but only once he was sure no one was looking. Apparently he'd missed the camera, but such things could be excused given the circumstances. Watching him watch over Gibbs was nearly as unbearable as seeing Gibbs fall into the blackness in the first place.

She'd recorded the newsfeed and the crappy-quality video, and rewound and replayed it countless times. The whole thing was amazing – like a superhero team come alive – but oddly it was that end scene she kept pausing, studying.

There was a heavy sadness to the man kneeling in the mucky snow. He should be feeling victorious, but he looked forlorn.

All of those contradictions made her question whether her initial judgment of DiNozzo was wrong. But that's not what had her miffed.

Trying to investigate the man's background, as Gibbs had asked her by signing, was infuriating.

On paper, DiNozzo was a golden child. The only son of a rich, dynastic couple; sent to a posh boarding school where he obviously fit in, good grades, captain of an alarming number of teams, some minor infractions, but just enough to indicate a spirited kid, nothing serious.

Then a scholarship to Ohio State – and why should a freakin' rich kid get a scholarship wasted on him? – and participation in more sports and a frat house. Decent grades. A career-ending injury that apparently spun the Phys Ed major for a loop until he ended up at the Peoria police academy. A year there as a uniform, then a quick promotion to detective in property crimes. A move one year later to Philadelphia for a promotion to an organized crime task force, then a quick stint in vice before transferring over to vice in Baltimore, then moving up the ladder – so far as detectives generally thought – to homicide.

But as she worked backwards through his life, the contradictions just kept piling up.

He had the best solve rate in his current department, but his captain hated him. She got the impression that his fellow detectives respected him, but they carefully worded what they said, and were more at ease relating 'crazy Tony stories' which featured DiNozzo chasing suspects through improbable scenarios, scoring more women than Don Juan and generally pissing off people you weren't supposed to piss off.

His direct supervisor in Baltimore's vice division said DiNozzo was the most promising young detective he'd worked with in his ten years with the department.

She'd expected the same hot/cold reaction from Philadelphia, but from everyone she talked to here she got the runaround. They wouldn't talk about him. Period. Nothing. Seriously bizarre.

From Peoria she got glowing reviews, and more than one request to let DiNozzo know he was always welcome back. They'd make a position for him if they had to.

She was about to switch to college-age research when the Peoria desk sergeant she was speaking to suggested she talk to Christopher Dale, the cop from Long Island who'd recommended DiNozzo to the academy program.

A shiver trilled up her back. This felt like a more promising lead.

Momentarily abandoning Ohio State, she took Dale's number down from the incredibly helpful Peoria sergeant and gave it a try. He answered warmly enough, but became cautious as soon as she mentioned DiNozzo's name.

"Why are you asking about Tony? You a reporter?"

"No sir, I'm calling with NCIS. Just doing some general background information."

"You can call me Chris, ma'am. And what might the Navy cops want with Tony?"

"You can call me Abby, Chris." At least she didn't have to explain what NCIS was for the bazillionth time since taking this job. She fudged her next response, as 'Gibbs told me to' wasn't likely to be a satisfactory answer. "I can't tell you, exactly. But if you guessed…well, I can't stop you from guessing."

He seemed happy enough to play the game. "Did he find buried treasure?"

"Chris! We're not hunting pirates here. Think real work."

"He's not a suspect in anything, is he?"

Honestly, Abby wasn't one hundred percent certain why Gibbs had asked her to pry into the detective's life, but he probably wouldn't be working with the younger man if he thought he was a freakin' serial killer. "Nope."

"He job-jumping again?"

"What would give you that impression?" She tried for coy. She'd been working on her coy this week.

"Gee, maybe the fact that the boy can't seem to stick his feet to a particular city for more than two years. Couldn't even during college, he spent two different semesters abroad."

"You knew him in college?"

"Depends, is this a job reference I'm providing?"

"It wouldn't be so surprising, would it? If we were interested in poaching him from Baltimore PD?"

"Hell no. You should steal him. Best asset you could have."

Maybe he had one of the _Peoria hearts DiNozzo_ t-shirts she was pretty sure existed.

"So how come you knew him back in college? Friend of the family?"

"Not really, no. I…ran across Tony when he was eight. Kept tabs on him after that."

"I bet you got to a lot of games at the boarding school since it was so close, but how many did you get to see out in Ohio?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised. Wasn't all that expensive to fly to Ohio back in the day. And man, it was worth it. Ohio State's kind of a sports giant, you know? They don't treat that kind of stuff lightly over there."

She kept him busy talking about games he'd attended in school and college, trying to build up the trust so she could poke further into how a cop could 'run across' an eight-year-old, and how that event could leave such an obviously lasting impression.

The guy sounded like a proud uncle.

"…so then when his knee blew out, he was trying to figure out what the hell he was gonna do. I floated the idea of going to the academy, seeing how it fit. He was surprised. Of all things."

"Because he'd never considered being a cop before?"

"That's what I thought. But no. Said he was surprised I suggested it. Kid's always been hard to read, so I figure despite all that confidence he usually shows, maybe this is one of those rare moments where he actually shows uncertainty, maybe he figures he's not good enough to be a cop, needs to be reassured."

Abby started to ask if that was the case, but Chris, now on his way to getting fully worked up to a rant, cut her off. "No. That's not it either. Well hell, for all I know that's true too, but it's not what he means. He tells me that he thinks I've been watching him all these years, waiting for him to screw up. Like it's my eternal pastime to sit in the damn rain with a newspaper over my head watching him run around the bases, or run around the track, or get the shit beat out of him on the field. Like the only reason I'm going is to see him fail, or wait for him to do something degenerate – that's the word he used, _degenerate_ – so I can put him away."

Holy crap.

"He thinks I'm stalking him as a criminal, and all I've ever wanted is for the kid to let me help him, maybe make some part of his damn life easier."

"So he wasn't the golden boy growing up? His life seems pretty cushy on paper."

"Cushy? Cushy? Yeah, right, lady. You know he…" He cut himself off this time, reining in temper. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Tell me, then. I want to know."

"It's not my story to tell."

"Then tell me just your part of it."

He hesitated.

She took a page out of Gibbs' book and waited silently. It was harder than it looked.

"It's not reflective on his career."

"You've got me thinking all sorts of juvie crimes, Chris. Might be better to just tell me the truth. My imagination can be a scary place."

"No, nothing like that. I met him when his mother died."

Oh, right. The detective's file did indicate that his mother was deceased. "So he was eight when his mom died? That's rough."

"That would be rough on anybody. On this kid – I don't even have the words."

"How did she die?"

"Cancer, that's no secret."

Hmm, that sure indicated that there _was_ a secret to sniff out.

"So you met him at the hospital?" she coaxed.

"No, at the DiNozzo estate."

There was a pause.

"Look, you seem like a nice lady, and I can't keep watch over him forever. Not that he ever let me to begin with. I'll tell you, but I want you to really think hard before you pass this information along to anyone else. If it's really pertinent."

"I promise," she agreed eagerly. That was no hard promise to make. You didn't share information with Gibbs that wouldn't be useful to him anyway, it only annoyed him.

"Tony's mother died at home. His father couldn't take it, I don't know if he loved her so much it was killing him too, or if he just didn't want to be around the mess. But Tony and a part-time nurse were taking care of her."

"When he was just eight?" Poor kid!

"Started at seven. It was no surprised that she died when she did, but for whatever reason the nurse wasn't there then and none of the servants were home except a gardener."

"He was by himself," Abby whispered, more a statement of horror than a question.

"Yes. He was. He tried to reach his father, but couldn't. Then he called the operator and asked for the police."

"The operator? Not 9-1-1?"

"The operator. My wife was working dispatch that night and heard the call come in. She said it was the politest little kid you ever heard. He didn't want to bother anybody, but his mother had died and he didn't know what to do next. Could someone please send out the appropriate personnel?"

Chris paused again, and Abby put her forehead on the table, closing her eyes as his words gave way to a truly heartbreaking image in her mind.

"He said that, he asked for 'the appropriate personnel,' like a little master. Didn't want to dial 9-1-1 because it wasn't an emergency. She was already dead.

"Half-expected a little sociopath when we showed up, but maybe what we found was worse. Me and my partner Sam, we rolled up and went to the front door. He let us in. Face was all screwed up into some kind of pleasant greeting, like he had to be the perfect little host. Led us up a huge central staircase and down a hallway to her room. If it weren't for the fact that tears were streaming down his face and his arms were crossed with his hands tucked to his body, he would have seemed like a robot. A well-trained robot.

"We get into the room and verify – sure enough, she's gone, and what does he do? He offers us a seat."

Dale devolved into swearing for a moment.

"He doesn't know how to reach his dad quickly, but he's left messages, he tells us. He's been sitting by her bedside since yesterday, heard her breathing change, was afraid she'd die soon. The nurse had told him stories, what to watch for.

"He let the servants go for the day to preserve her dignity. Preserve her dignity! What kind of parents raise an eight-year-old that says shit like that!"

And what kind of servants listened to an eight-year-old when he gave them orders? Or maybe the correct question was what kind of eight-year-old could order people around and be listened to?

"This whole time there are tears just streaming down his face. Snot starting to bubble down, but he's still speaking in a perfectly even tone, his face is still trying to contort itself into something impassive, I guess. We figured he had his hands tucked against himself as some kind of 'don't touch me' sign, or maybe warming them up. From shock, you know?"

She nodded against the cool metal table, though he couldn't see her.

"A little later, after the coroner gets there, Sam notices that the kid's signing papers with his right hand but his left hand never moves. Like he's protecting it. I asked him about it, he said there was an accident, it was hurt. It could wait.

"Best as we could piece together later, the kid slammed his own hand in one of those big mahogany doors on the estate, trying to keep his emotions in check. Slammed his hand in a door to keep his voice level, his mind working. Broke a crazy number of bones in that tiny hand. Surprised it healed so well as it did."

Abby flexed her own hand. Even if they had healed and he had full use, they must ache at times…

Chris added a muttered, "Pretty sure he slammed his left hand so he could still fill out paperwork. Adults wouldn't even think of something like that. How does a damn little kid? He had all the funeral arrangements memorized. His mother'd been very specific about what she wanted, and she made him memorize everything. He set it all up while his father was still in Sweden. Barely made it back for the funeral. The funeral _his kid set up_." Dale roared the end, then cleared his throat.

"So yeah. I followed Tony's movements. He got left in that huge house largely by himself, then dumped in a boarding school that seemed more like a boot camp run by gun freaks. He never took anything from me, never called me of his own volition once, never lit up when he saw me in the stands. But maybe I was at least a regular fixture. Eventually he stopped looking surprised when I showed up. He returned some of my calls. And when I floated the idea of the police academy – and then yelled at him a bit for assuming I'd spent all that time on him just waiting for him to fuck up – well he actually went. So maybe it meant something."

He grumbled nearly under his breath, "Though it would've have been nice if he'd moved closer, instead of going even further west."

Something about his occasional muttering and grumbling reminded her of Gibbs. Maybe that's why DiNozzo seemed less affected by the scowling mannerisms. Or maybe he still expected everyone to think the worst of him, so he just wasn't disturbed by being confronted with actions that might support that.

She thanked Dale, agreeing that the specifics of this really didn't need to go beyond her.

Hanging up, she found tears rolling down her own cheeks.

That little bastard. She'd make him pay for being so untrusting. She'd _make_ him trust her.

Abby cued the video back up from the start. Suddenly DiNozzo's vigil over Gibbs' prone body seemed even more plaintive.

Was the detective-man broken?

She restarted the video yet again, watched him in action.

Maybe he was. _But he wasn't the only one,_ she thought, looking at Gibbs on screen. And Tony didn't seem to be after anyone to save him, or fix him, or even pay any attention to him. He was self-driven, self-maintained. He didn't need help, exactly.

But maybe a partner. Someone to help out when he did need it, but didn't realize it. Somebody to pull him back over the ledge, even if he didn't expect anyone to.

Sounded like someone else she knew.


	19. Chapter 19

_Thanks to everyone who has left such kind feedback! It's very driving, and most appreciated. How excited is everyone for "Baltimore" to air next week? Oh, it better be gooooooood..._

* * *

Angry, but doing his best to hide it, Tony exited his car calmly, caught the keys Gibbs tossed at him, and went back down to the morgue.

What right did Gibbs have to be pissed at him?

Hadn't he just gotten them in and out of the stupid school in under two hours? Found the missing kid? Talked him out of the stupid one-story window?

Spilled his fucking guts in front of mister cranky-pants?

Not that Gibbs needed to know any of that shit was true. He probably wasn't listening, anyway. Was probably just pissed that DiNozzo took over.

But seriously – that kid wasn't a child in need of soothing. Certainly ot by telling him his absent parents were _worried_ about him.

Where did Gibbs get this crap, anyway? Did he grow up in Mayberry?

"Ah, Jethro," Ducky greeted, alone in the cold room. "Your…someone called me to remind you about a particular appointment this afternoon at five o'clock sharp. Hello, Anthony."

Gibbs plainly searched his memory for a moment, then recalled whatever the doctor was elusively referring to. His expression grew downright stormy.

Tony ignored it. Like he cared. They could be evasive all they wanted. Didn't matter to him at all.

"You got anything, doc?"

Ducky peered at him oddly, then replied, "Yes, perhaps. There were several DNA samples collected across the cases. No one has compared them yet; we are in the process of doing so now. We've also checked across all cases of a similar nature in the surrounding states – everything I could get my hands on, anyway. I couldn't find anything markedly similar. I believe you've found what's to be found, my boy."

Was that supposed to make him feel better, that there weren't more? It didn't. More might have meant more leads. Earlier, sloppier kills.

"You ready to go, Duck?" Gibbs asked shortly. "Need a ride back to HQ."

Wasn't like Tony wanted to drive him back there anyway. Not that he'd been asked.

"Yes, I can finish the rest of this in my own autopsy," Ducky agreed, gathering files together. "Perhaps we could get some lunch together, first?"

"No time."

Apparently used to brusque replies from the special agent, Ducky amicably moved faster. "All right then, we'll just grab something on the way."

He turned to Tony as they entered the elevator. "I trust I'll be speaking with you soon?"

Charmingly, Tony agreed. "Count on it."

Gibbs tossed him an indiscernible look as the doors slid shut, and Tony increased the wattage of his smile. Gibbs' expression turned from stormy to raging in a heartbeat, but then he was gone.

And Tony was alone, again.

He preferred it that way.

Jogging up the stairs and ignoring the pressure pounding in his knee, he headed straight to Whitford's desk at an amble. "Leo! My man. What's up, what's going on, what's the word?"

The slight man looked up from his monitor quickly. "Tony!" Leo shot a quick look to Mallace's office. "Now's maybe not the best time."

Voice lowering, he added, "Captain's in a particularly special mood. You should keep clear."

DiNozzo felt the buzz that dared him to draw out the risk. His eyes and smile sharpened, but the rest of this body relaxed as he lounged nonchalantly against Whitford's desk, appearing as though he had nowhere better to be.

Making sure to keep his expression vapid, he nudged Whitford with his foot. "What's the buzz?"

"Not a bad idea for you to be working offsite, and with a fed. Mallace is starting to catch on, and he's sure to want a whipping boy to take down with him when he falls."

DiNozzo shrugged. "He can yank at me if he wants, I don't topple over so easily."

Leo had just cracked a smile when the door opened and Mallace poked his square, bulging head out of the door. "DiNozzo!"

Blinking, Tony slowly turned and registered the captain. "Oh, hey, cap! You look really nice today. Did you get a new tie? See, a lesser man would think the purple didn't go with the orange. But you…" He smiled and shook a finger at the other man. "You've got your own kind of style, you sly dog."

Mallace looked down at his tie, as though contemplating his detective's words. His neck disappeared as he did so, increasing Tony's hope that he would one day retreat completely into his shell and get lost inside his own empty mind.

An evil genius of a boss would be great right now. Some mastermind plotting to take over the city. Someone he could pit himself against.

The captain huffed hot air on his tie and tried to shine it with his fingertips.

Last week he'd locked himself up in his office for an entire day. The building betting pool guesses ranged from the guy actually trying to fill out a form to speculation that he forgot how to open the door.

Turned out he was just waiting for Leo to leave his desk long enough to steal the kid's three-hole punch. When they'd invaded Mallace's office later that night – sure the three hole punch couldn't have been used for actual police paperwork – they'd found several impressive-sized binders gracing the desk behind the captain's desk. Inside were small, snack-sized bags of chips held in place by neat little holes punched in the top of each bag.

If he'd been a well-meaning moron, the precinct would have absorbed the loss of a competent captain and worked out a hierarchy of their own for command decisions and assignments. But sadly, he wasn't.

He was the meanest fool in the history of clowndom. And the one thing he was good at was remembering a grudge.

Nearly all of which were against Tony.

To say he drew the captain's negative attention on purpose was…well, it was true. But DiNozzo knew he could handle it. And – sometimes – it was fun.

Sadly, his fashion baiting was lost on the captain, who returned to his office admiring his own neckwear, having forgotten whatever punishment he'd intended to inflict upon Tony.

Feeling a bit dejected that he couldn't even draw out the stupid bear, DiNozzo gave a forced wave at an empathetic-looking Leo and wandered back to his desk to complete the follow-ups and stray bits of paperwork his other cases demanded.

An hour later, he stood and stretched out, intending to call the hospital and run down Solas' alibi. He'd have done it regardless, but the general sense of unease he felt around the shrink made him eager to check today. Just in case.

Then he realized Gibbs still had his phone.

The anger that had been swirling around inside him for the past two hours solidified in a satisfied, concentrated angerball behind his stomach.

He'd go to the hospital himself to verify the alibi. Screw landlines, he'd rather talk to someone face-to-face anyway.

Then he'd find Gibbs. Find Gibbs and reclaim what was his.

* * *

Walking into NCIS HQ, Tony was greeted by one of the same security guards he'd met two days before, along with a fresh face.

Familiar Guy nodded at him. "You still got the pass we gave you last time?"

Mildly surprised, DiNozzo pulled the guest pass out of his wallet. "These things are good for more than a day?"

"Can be. Especially for other law enforcement personnel working with an agent on an active case. Yours was set up for a week."

Not Familiar Guy offered, "I'll call someone down to escort you."

Familiar Guy stopped him. "No need. He's Gibbs'."

"I'm not Gibbs' anything," came a more venomous reply than Tony had intended to make.

Oops.

"We're just working an investigation together."

_Smooth, DiNozzo._

Familiar Guy raised an eyebrow. "Whatever you say, pal. You've got free rein here this week unless Gibbs changes his tune about you."

"That's it? An agent has that kind of power to grant free access to a lowly local LEO?"

Not Familiar Guy gave a half-shrug. "Depends. But Gibbs? Generally Gibbs gets what Gibbs wants. It's one of the main rules of the building."

Torn between envy and disgust, Tony thanked the guards and went looking for the phone thief. Remembering their route from the previous day, he headed to autopsy first.

Through the glass doors, he could see Ducky pacing the room and talking to himself. Tony considered stopping in, but there was no one else in the room and he didn't want to pause for a pleasant chat.

He wanted a fight. Any kind of fight. Even a bicker would do.

Continuing the path from his previous visit, he headed to Abby's lab with a minor amount of trepidation and a fat load of glee.

She certainly hadn't taken to him, and didn't seem the shy type. There must be fight possibilities here with Gibbs out of the picture.

He walked into the din and considered his possibilities. What would really grate?

He decided to turn the music off.

When silence fell, she whirled around. "Gibbs, I didn't –"

He was wrong. Silence hadn't fallen before. A lack of incredibly loud music had fallen. Now, as she spotted him in her lab unaccompanied by Gibbs, now silence truly fell.

She stared at him with a particularly keen intensity. She didn't look angry or lustful, so he didn't like it.

He returned her stare, but the more he saw, the squirmier he felt at his original intention of picking a fight with her.

Yes, she was hardcore with the tattoos and the chains and the black eyeliner and the black nail polish. She looked like she could handle herself, too. There were muscles on that body.

But there were also little girl pink Strawberry Shortcake binders holding her pigtails up, and her eyes were too good. Not broken, not wary, not tired. She looked a little innocent, and a lot wholesome, despite her trappings.

Oh well, he was here. Let the fight ensue.

Except…something tickled at the back of his mind.

"Tattoos."

She tilted her head to one side. "Very good."

"How many do you have?"

"Wouldn't you like to know!"

"No. Well yes, but I meant do you know enough of the scene to track down the artist of a particular tat?"

"Likely. Whose art?"

"Collins. I noticed he had one, not brand new but new enough. No scabs, but a tinge of pink around the edges, you know?"

She nodded emphatically. "I know. I'll check it out."

"Thanks. It's probably nothing…" He was losing control of this conversation. He hated sounding stupid, and he couldn't give her a good reason to check out the tattoo. It was just a sudden urge.

"We do 'it's probably nothing' well, here. I think a third of all our cases are solved on it."

She was still staring at him, her face relaxing even more as they interacted. She was bright-eyed and curious, like a cartoon.

Suddenly, Abby put out a hand. "Stay still."

This was new.

She walked toward him. Checking the new damage to see if Gibbs' fists had created any of it?

As she got closer, he started to back up.

"I mean it, don't move. A muscle. Got it?"

He stayed still, but didn't like it.

Abby pushed right up into his face, their height nearly identical due to her continued use of platform boots.

He wanted to bounce a foot. Flick his fingers. Retreat.

She dared him to stay still by not losing eye contact from four inches away, their noses nearly touching.

She leaned forward.

Tony very nearly panicked.

He wasn't prone to panicking.

Was she going to kiss him? There was no flirtation between them.

Maybe she was going to scratch him with those massive black-painted nails?

She wouldn't _bite _him, would she? Had he seen her teeth? Did she have fangs?

Abby leaned in, rested the left side of her face against the right side of his, and encircled him in a bear hug.

He froze. Not the forced stillness of before. There was no tension in his muscles now; he just ceased movement, nearly stopped breathing, waiting to see what she'd do.

She held on.

And held on.

And held on.

After an eternity, she spoke quietly in his ear. "Traditionally, one returns hugs unless they find the hugger repulsive. Are you saying you find me repulsive?"

He was fairly sure the words were intended as manipulative, but his arms raised nonetheless and wrapped themselves around her back.

He thought she'd squeeze and then step back, but instead she snuggled.

"I thought I wasn't supposed to move?"

"Well you can move when I _tell_ you to move," she replied with great exaggerated patience.

Her head moved to his shoulder, and he found himself able to breathe a little easier.

There was no sexual overtone to her movements, but there was an overabundance of easy physicality. She liked to touch, it seemed.

Strange.

He drew a hand across her back, slowly, hesitantly, in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. Maybe she was upset, needed reassurance.

She sure didn't seem upset, but maybe.

Her shoulders felt so tiny, her body so narrow next to his, despite their similarity of height. Suddenly he felt like he could break her.

"How can you feel so fragile and look so tough?" Had he meant to say that aloud?

The stiffness of his posture slowly faded. He couldn't quite return the leaning cuddle, but he cradled her as best he could.

He felt her smile against his neck. "Most things that look tough on the outside aren't so hard on the inside. And I don't break. Bigger men than you have tried."

He chuckled, appreciating the use of humor in…in whatever this situation was.

"I need you to remember that."

"Bigger men? Great for my ego."

"Just remember. Don't leave him, okay?"

He pushed away from her a little, though she wouldn't let go. "Gibbs?"

"Of course."

"This is about Gibbs? You don't want me to leave him?" Some of the anger that had dissipated started to return.

She paused, choosing her words. "I don't want you to give up. This is your case. Don't let him drive you away from it no matter what."

He let himself be mollified, against his better judgment. "He doesn't like me or trust me."

"Wrong."

"He has a funny way of showing it."

"Yes."

Her unwillingness to disentangle wore him down until he relaxed into her again. "So you only want me for my skills."

"Mad skillz," she agreed.

There were worse things to be wanted for.

"Wait, don't you hate me?"

"I got over that."

"You're a little volatile."

"The prerogative of a woman, Tony." With a sigh, she let go and ran her hands down his arms, ending up holding his fingertips.

She looked at him with such intensity he expected a secret of the universe to fall from her lips.

"Tony."

"Yeah?"

"Go catch bad guys."

The slow grin that crept across his face was real, and infectious. "Yes, ma'am."

She let him loose and he turned to leave.

Hesitating, he figured his last impulse upon leaving her lab hadn't ended up so badly, so he might as well give into this one too.

Turning back, he silently sprinted across the space that separated them, then tickled her sides.

Shrieking, she turned and chased him out of the lab.


	20. Chapter 20

Good spirits restored by his odd encounter with Abby, Tony sprinted up the stairs, ignoring the shooting stab-like pains radiating from his knee, which was getting worse instead of better as the day progressed. Still, the pain was familiar enough to be ignored as long as his mind was occupied.

And currently it was all-too occupied with the whereabouts of one Leroy Jethro Gibbs, who was not at his desk. Not at his desk, not in autopsy, not in Abby's lab, not in the building, apparently. Nor was he answering his – Tony's – phone.

"He left for an appointment, Tony." Wadusky piped up, the lone man in the squad room at the moment.

Shit. The mysterious five o'clock appointment.

"Any idea how long he'll be?"

"Sorry, no clue. Don't even know where he is."

"Does he usually tell you where he goes?"

Rich laughed, prompting a smile from Tony. "Yeah, I guess I should've expected that answer."

"He's really taken to you, though." The agent sounded wistful. "I wish I could clone whatever vibes you're giving off. I just need to last six months."

"Six months?" He decided to ignore the kid's incorrect read on the situation.

"If you can last six months with Gibbs, you can pretty much pick your choice of the open posts. And…" Wadusky leaned towards Tony, lowering his voice, "…There's an FBI agent who has a standing offer. Any NCIS probie who lasts six months with Gibbs can join the FBI, no questions."

Just how big a bastard _was_ Gibbs on an average day? And why would the rookies want to leave NCIS, even if they did want to scramble away from Gibbs' tender ministrations? It seemed like a pretty sweet deal: smaller agency, more autonomy, less bureaucratic bullshit, a mixture of case types. _And apparently a looser dress code_, he thought, watching a middle-aged agent wearing a Notre Dame sweatshirt and a backwards toupee cross to the elevator. "You don't need the stinkin' FBI. Anything new on Collins' financials?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. He did have a will set up, any money goes to a cancer foundation. No motive there."

"Did you find anything on the shrink, or ties to the clinic for the other victims?"

"Two of the other names from your list visited the same clinic in the last year, a third if you go back two years. Five total if you go back five years. But they're mostly locals, and none of them saw the same doctors. Mostly they were just using the urgent care for the flu, an ear infection, a sprained wrist. I don't see any connection."

Damn.

"Nothing weird pops for Solas, either."

Double damn.

"His alibi was solid, too," Tony mused. "I already did a search across the victims for the list for common memberships, credit card charges, hangouts, stuff like that. But it wouldn't hurt for you to double check. Maybe your fancy NCIS machines will find something I missed."

"Fancy NCIS machines? Like computers?" Awh, Wadusky was trying to tease. A pathetic result, but nice attempt.

"You and your newfangled words." Tony smiled easily and turned to go back down to autopsy, hoping Ducky could tell him where Gibbs might be.

He stopped when he found an older, composed man watching him from halfway up the stairs that backed Gibbs' team's area. He raised an eyebrow, assuming the stare would stop now that it had been noticed.

It did not.

Altering his body language from quick and purposeful to relaxed and languid, DiNozzo wandered over to the stairs, leaning against the railing. "I know. I can't help but stare at me sometimes, too. Impressive, right?"

A spark of humor entered the pale blue eyes, but the gaze and poise of this new unknown element remained strong. A quietly forceful personality, Tony summed up quickly.

Wadusky hissed loudly from his desk. "Tony, stop."

Ah, a personage of note.

A challenge.

Tony's smile increased and his eyes narrowed slightly as he considered what tactic to take with Important Man. Important Man himself waited calmly, an antithesis to Gibbs' impatient action. Idly, DiNozzo wondered if these two got along.

He started up the stairs.

"People think I must put a lot of time into being so perfect. I mean, there's the hair, and the body, and the overall look. But really, it's just natural to me. No special secrets."

Reaching the platform Important Man stood on, Tony approached him and draped his hands over the railing casually. "Hey, did you buy your suit at Brooks Brothers? I hear they have nice stuff there."

This got a small uptick of the left side of the other man's mouth.

Wadusky put his head down on his desk, hiding ineffectively.

"I've been looking for a pair of loafers just like that! Yours don't have tassels, though. I'm trying to decide if I'm a tassel man. Hey, would it be rude if I asked to try your shoes on?"

Important Man smiled and turned, headed back up the stairs. "Come with me for a moment, Detective DiNozzo."

Tony followed. "You might've gotten your secret decoder ring out of the Cheerios box this morning, but mine got stolen by a Scottish pathologist. You are…?"

They approached a large, secure metal door, at which the other man leaned in for a retinal scan. Leading Tony inside, he offered, "This is MTAC, the main communications hub for NCIS."

"Very James Bond," Tony complimented, checking out the security features, the massive screen, the techs doing techie things scattered about the outskirts of the room. "Stadium seating! You should screen movies here when it's not busy."

"I'll take that under consideration," Important Man said, as though he actually might.

Dropping most of his affected braggart personality traits, DiNozzo looked curiously at his new acquaintance and tried a more straightforward method. He stuck his right hand out. "Detective Anthony DiNozzo, Baltimore Homicide. And you are?"

"Director Tom Morrow, NCIS." The two shook hands briefly, but firmly. A good measure of a man.

"Soooo…you don't mean deputy director? Assistant director?"

"Just straight director." Morrow sat in the first row of seats, half-watching an op take place in what looked like Istanbul.

Tony paused a second, then shrugged. The man wasn't asking him to bow and scrape, so why bother? "I guess that's a no on trying on your shoes, then?"

He got a small chuckle back. It sounded rusty. Didn't they joke around in this place at all? Some days a well-placed bit of banter or friendly razzing was all that kept him going.

The director answered, "Not right now, anyway. Who knows, one day you might be a candidate to be _in_ my shoes."

Whoa. What? "You mean…like, you're gonna have a garage sale?" Deliberately obtuse rarely steered him wrong when he had no idea what was going on.

"You're an interesting man, detective. What is it you're looking for?"

"A serial killer, sir."

"Not what I meant, but point well taken. 'Sir' trips off your tongue more easily than I would have expected given your…flippancy."

"I never saw the point in hating authority figures for being in a position of authority. If you give them long enough, generally they'll give you a real reason for disappointment to latch on to." Tony grinned cheekily.

"So you have no problems taking orders?"

"Depends on the order. And who's giving them. That upset you? That I won't follow blindly?"

"I think you might surprise yourself on that front if you found the right situation, detective. But no, it does not upset me. On the contrary. It's refreshing to find someone who can walk the line of obedience and irreverence. Your ability to follow a command and your ability to challenge one when you feel the need to are both important tools when dealing with Gibbs. I'm impressed you managed to retain these qualities despite your current situation."

"I have a situation? Somebody forgot to tell me."

"I was referring to working under Mallace."

"Gibbs told you about Mallace?" Tony asked incredulously. Why bother? When had there even been time?

"No, he didn't."

"But you know Mallace."

"I've never met the man. I have…contacts…within your organization."

"Let me get this straight." Tony plopped down into a chair next to Morrow. "The director of a federal law enforcement agency is keeping an eye on one particular precinct of the Baltimore police department?"

"That is not entirely untrue."

"So…you're watching me?"

"No, not at all. Merely getting some information from an acquaintance from time to time. I wasn't aware of you until I started getting reports that Gibbs was actually working with a local detective. I made some inquiries about you then. My contact is impressed by you, on every front."

This was weird Big Brother is watching you, conspiracies are everywhere, the truth is out there shit.

On the massive screen in front of them, a boat blew up. Morrow grunted.

Screw this, it wasn't getting him anywhere but confused. "Look, you seem like an interesting guy and all, and I'm real interested in your footwear, but I don't have time to play right now. I've gotta catch the bad guy."

Morrow stood. "Certainly. I'll walk you down."

And the director of NCIS did just that. He graciously escorted his guest out of MTAC, and led him down the stairs.

This place was odd. Really not ordinary.

Ducky was conversing with Greene in the bullpen, and looked up to greet the arrival of Morrow and Tony together with no surprise at all. "Ah, Anthony. I'm happy to see you again so soon. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Looking for Gibbs. Any clue where he is?"

"Ah. Yes. Well, unfortunately I do. But it's a personal matter, I'm afraid it wouldn't be right to divulge."

"Do you know how long his meeting will last?"

"Not very, so far as I know. An hour, perhaps."

"Good, maybe he'll come back to the office."

"On any other night you'd be correct. But tonight, he may head straight home."

"I'll just go there, then." Tony would not be dissuaded. It was his damn phone, and he wanted it. The more Ducky tried to talk him out of seeing Gibbs tonight, the more he stubbornly wanted to. They were on a case. A serial killer case. As in the killer killed serially, and could add to his numbers any day now. Any minute.

"He's liable to be in a worse mood than normal, I wouldn't recommend it."

DiNozzo smiled. "Sounds like fun."

The internal elevator behind him dinged, and he had the quick warning of, "Tony!" before a be-pigtailed scientist rocketed into him from behind, arms wrapping around his stomach.

Thankfully he had good balance, and didn't smash directly into Morrow or Ducky, who both greeted the new addition as though this were normal for her.

"Hi Abby."

"You're still here!"

"It's only been twenty minutes. Where'd you think I'd be?"

"After Gibbs, of course. Isn't that why you came?"

"Don't suppose you know where he is."

"Not officially. But I could guess. Are you going over to his house?"

"Looks like. Wanna come with?"

"Can't, I've got too much evidence to process. I was just taking a caffeine break. But if you go over there, don't let him push you around, you hear?"

"Wasn't planning on it." With a sharp smile, Tony shifted Abby around to his side and steered them both towards the elevator that would take him back to the lobby, and out to his car. Over his shoulder he tossed, "Nice meeting you, director. Hope that secret spy stuff works out for you."

* * *

As the elevator doors closed, Morrow and Ducky stepped away from the young agents to the nearby window for a modicum of privacy.

"Apparently Abby's over her reservations," Morrow remarked dryly.

"Apparently." Ducky agreed with a wide smile. "Should we have tried harder to warn him off, do you think?"

"I think Gibbs is better experienced than explained. Do you think he can pull it off?"

"The young detective, you mean? I think if anyone can, he can. It's an interesting dynamic. There may yet be an explosion, but I can't say which side is more likely blow."

"Cross your fingers, doctor. He needs this to work."

"Anthony or Jethro?"

"Yes."

* * *

Tony pulled up in front of Gibbs' house and parked. Abby had delayed him longer than expected with rapid-fire information about the varying attributes of various caffeinated beverages, but he still left NCIS headquarters by 5:30. Unsure how long the mysterious meeting would last, Tony drove around until he found a greasy-looking pizza place and a liquor store.

Balancing two pies and two six packs of cold beer, he approached Gibbs' front door. Hesitation would only cause trepidation and second thoughts, so he banged on the door full force. "Gibbs! Food!" What man didn't come to that call?

Stupid question. Gibbs didn't come to any call.

He glanced around, debating if he should try the back or a window. Just to be sure the effort was necessary, he tried turning the doorknob of the front door first.

It opened.

Well, damn.

Sliding the boxes and cans onto the nearest table, Tony shifted silently, hand on his now loosened weapon, sliding through the room.

No signs of a struggle.

The place was fairly spartan, with homey touches here and there that looked like they'd been in place for a long time. Clean but not often lived-in.

The life of a cop. Or special agent.

He moved through the dining room, into the kitchen. Still no mess, no sign of a struggle. But why had the door been unlocked? A motor pool-looking car was in the drive, so he expected Gibbs had made it home from his meeting. Maybe he was just so upset from whatever it was he forgot to lock it?

Tony snorted. Fat chance. More likely the bastard was too cocky to think anyone would dare barge in.

Time for him to learn differently.

Hand still on his weapon, Tony padded up the carpeted steps, having left his shoes next to several neat sets of others on a mat by the front door. Three open doors, one closed. Ghosting into the two bedrooms and one bath that were easily accessible, he found no one. He tried the knob on the closed door but it was locked. With a slight frown, Tony placed his ear to the door.

No noise.

It smelled faintly like cotton candy, though. Strange.

Padding back down to the first floor, he heard something crash in the basement. Alert and prepared, weapon in hand, he nudged the old creaky wooden door open and slowly descended into a dim room full of lumber and unrecognizable tools.

And Gibbs.

Alone Gibbs.

Not in danger Gibbs.

Drunk Gibbs?

At least drinking Gibbs. The man was taking large swallows out of a small, dirty-looking glass.

Tony went down two more steps before he hit a squeak. Gibbs spun around, weapon steady as it pointed straight at his head. Tony felt the urge to jump into a pissing match return full force, but he made himself to calmly holster his gun and level an inquiring gaze at Gibbs' gun, still aimed.

Shrugging, DiNozzo said, "I've had worse greetings," and slowly started down the rest of the stairs.

His mind flashing through all the different tacts he could take in this conversation, his body tensed and slightly turned to make a play for his gun again – just in case – he was out of position and too slow to compensate when his knee finally gave out.

He fell down the rest of the stairs, landing in a tangled heap on a hard cement floor.

* * *

Gibbs was drunk.

He wasn't shit-faced drunk. He didn't believe in it; not only could he get a call into work at any moment, if he got truly shit-faced drunk he might not even be in top shape for tomorrow's workday.

He didn't feel a drink or too at night did him any harm, but he rarely had more, despite Ducky's fears.

However.

There were certain days he felt warranted a little more than one drink. Days he was injured, or someone on his command was. Days after they finished working on a case involving kids. Days when someone he knew, from the service or from NCIS, were killed in action. And Divorce Days.

Today was Divorce Day #3. So, he was drunk. He preferred to be drunk and grumpy in solitude, so the arrival of the damn detective annoyed him. He intended to order the man far away, was prepared to fire a warning shot if it seemed like it'd do any good. It wouldn't be the first time a gun had been fired in this basement.

But watching him fall down the stairs was just pathetic. At first Gibbs was sure it was some kind of prank, a pratfall to throw him off guard. Stupid kid was trying to get him to laugh, or at least put his gun down. No way in hell that would work.

When DiNozzo failed to bounce back up right away, he reconsidered. Put his gun on the worktable. Walked over to the crumpled body on the ground. Kicked Tony – in the side, not the knee, as he wasn't _that_ big of a bastard.

A strained voice came from the floor. "Thank you, that was immensely helpful."

Maybe he wasn't drunk enough to deal with this. He wandered back over to his worktable and took another swallow, eyeing the still-unmoving detective.

He wished he didn't know what it felt like to have a knee give out unexpectedly, make you feel weak. The pain any bodily movement could cause in the injured, swollen joint. How hard it was to get up again, especially on your own.

Surly at these thoughts, Gibbs stalked – tried to stalk, he wasn't drunk enough to wobble, but stalking was getting hard – back to the base of the steps and braced his hand on the railing for balance, then used his left foot to detangle DiNozzo's limbs, until all four were more-or-less where you'd expect them to be. He bent down and put his own glass to the man's lips. "Open."

Eyes still closed, Tony complied and did open his mouth. He gagged a little, either from the strong liquor or the attempt to drink lying down, but managed to swallow most of it. Green eyes slowly blinked open, wary, emitting an alien intelligence Gibbs still didn't understand. Like a damn cat. Gibbs wasn't overly fond of cats for just that reason.

He mostly-stalked back to the worktable and poured himself another drink. Scowled at DiNozzo. "You leaving soon?"

"Thought I'd stick around." The voice was strong and nonchalant, though the body still hadn't moved on its own.

"Don't recall inviting you."

"Don't recall saying you could take my phone."

Gibbs started guiltily. Not because he'd taken the phone. Because he'd forgotten whose phone he had when he doused it in paint thinner. "What's the matter, too weak to get up?" He said it cruelly. He knew he did. But he wanted to be left alone, goddammit.

With a truly intimidating look on his face, Detective Anthony DiNozzo forced himself into a sitting position. Then propped himself against the wall. Then slowly pushed up against the wall until his good leg and the friendly wall were holding him mostly upright. Then he stood on his own.

Assuming the knee was truly blown, and this wasn't some elaborate ruse, Gibbs knew how painful that must have been. But other than some minor face contortions, DiNozzo gave no acknowledgement to the pain. He made not a sound. And his eyes never left Gibbs the entire time he struggled upright.

"Nah, I'm peachy. Just don't feel like leaving," he dared.

Gibbs was drunk. He reminded himself of this. He didn't get verbose, or particularly morose, when he drank. He didn't get friendly or sleepy. He just…lost a little common sense, a little of his control. Or, more accurately, his desire to use that control.

He struggled now. He had no problem being a bastard, but he didn't want to be responsible for causing permanent injury. Though he really, really wanted to punch something. Something that would hurt.

He channeled all of his anger and frustration from the going-nowhere case, the divorce proceedings, the foiled desire to be alone, and from revelations made by this very detective earlier in the day, revelations he could do nothing about, into words.

Gibbs didn't channel his energies into words very often. When he did, in a mood like this, they tended to be…mean.

"I guess you had to learn to stand up for yourself when you wanted something. Since no one wanted you around to begin with."

"That was subpar, Gibbs. You can do better." Tony angled himself further into the room, though he didn't move much from his current position. Possibly he couldn't.

"Get out." That was it. The last of his self control. If the boy didn't follow that command…

Alert, bright eyes swept the room. "Nah. I don't think so." The eyes came back to his. "I want to know why you're here."

"In _my_ basement?"

"Yeah, in _your _basement. Not working on the case. Drunk off your ass, indulging yourself, _not working the case."_

He dared? He dared to question Gibbs' commitment to this job? Rage flashed. "I know why I'm here. This is my damn house. Why are you here? Do you need a babysitter? Do you need someone to hold your hand? Someone to help you up? Someone to tell you you're doing a good job?" Each new insult was delivered more scornfully, but DiNozzo hadn't even blinked.

Gibbs snarled. He upped his game.

"You look a little sad, DiNozzo. Does it make you sad to know that no one's going to back you up? That you're all alone, again, like you always have been, always will be? Does it make you sad to realize _no one cares_? You could fall off the end of the earth, and no one would notice? Poor little Tony…"

The detective didn't flinch. If anything, he got steelier. "No, I do not feel sad, Special Agent Gibbs. I feel pissed off. Pissed off that you're wasting my time in your damn basement, when we should be catching the killer. Pissed off that you're keeping information from me. When were you planning on telling me there was no useful information on Collins' laptop? That there was no clinic connection? That Abby didn't find anything in the papers we gave her?"

"Oh, right. Because you're the damn poster boy for sharing information. Were you planning on letting me into your little intrigue in the office? How long has Mallace been under investigation?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," DiNozzo said pleasantly.

"Fuck that. How long have you known Leo is Internal Affairs?"

"I couldn't possibly know that."

"_How long_?"

"He never told me any such thing."

"Maybe, but you knew it, guessed it, didn't you? You've been feeding him information all along, distracting Mallace from his investigation."

"Really, Gibbs, your imagination is vaster than I gave you credit for." The rapid tone change from anger to mild disinterest only pissed Gibbs off more.

"Leo warned me off of Delilla, you know. He a dirty cop? Were you just going to let me work with a dirty cop if Mallace assigned him to me?"

"I don't know that Delilla's a dirty cop. He has a good case closure rate. Really, Gibbs, you're getting a little worked up here. I'm starting to think I'm not welcome."

Gibbs nearly screamed. Quietly, menacingly, he advanced on the detective. "You are not welcome here. You are not wanted. You are not needed." No wince yet, but at least the man pulled himself taller. It was something, a kind of defense maybe. He pushed harder. "You're not even a distraction." Slowly now, punctuating every word. "You. Are. A. Waste. Of. Time."

Finally, he got it. The flinch he wanted.

Gibbs' eyes registered victory. He had won. He finally won a hand with this damn cocky kid!

Tony turned and started a slow climb up the stairs, making no noise.

Exalted, Gibbs turned and tossed back the rest of his drink. Peace!

Then he realized there had been no sound of the front door opening and closing.

Then he heard the television turn on.

Enraged, he pounded up the stairs to find DiNozzo seated on his couch, eating pizza and watching a baseball game.

So furious he was unsure what he might do, Gibbs took two steps closer.

Tony glanced at him casually. "Oh, hey, Gibbs. This tv is ancient, we should really get you a new one. Want some pizza? I got two different kinds, though I don't remember you being picky about toppings."

Gibbs advanced, hands clenched.

With a little offhand look, Tony quietly said, "I noticed your ring is gone. I guess you got divorced today. That must suck."

Rage drained, and with it, strength. Gibbs dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, staring at DiNozzo.

Tony considered him with a serious face for a moment, then crammed an entire piece of pizza in his mouth and smiled cheekily. Literally.

Gibbs laid back and crossed his arms over his eyes.

Tony sat quietly for a while, eating and watching.

Gibbs' stomach growled.

Tony put a box of pizza on his lap.

Giving in, Gibbs lowered his arms and opened the box. He took out a piece of what looked to be garbage pizza minus the olives – good choice – and took a massive bite. Glanced over at DiNozzo, whose eyes flitted away, back to the boob tube.

Shit. What had he said downstairs, exactly? And why wouldn't this kid leave?

He didn't want to have to apologize. So he did a half-assed job of it. "You're not a waste of time, Tony. You're just supremely irritating sometimes."

He expected a grin in return, maybe a comeback, a change of topic, a sharp retort. He didn't get any of those.

Instead, he got an entirely new facet of DiNozzo. Again.

Serious, mildly disapproving, intense. Tony looked straight at him again, considering. "I don't care what you think right now. Tell me when you're sober, and maybe I'll listen. After we catch the killer."

Gibbs had a bad feeling that the detective expected the explosion of anger from the basement to be the gist of what he'd hear once the case was over, rather than a repeat of the half-wit apology.

DiNozzo's face was drawn tight, and Gibbs was feeling itchy that he'd have to make real amends until he remembered the kid's knee. Abruptly, he dumped his pizza box on the coffee table and went into the kitchen, returning with a bag of frozen peas and a bag of frozen corn.

He placed them gently on DiNozzo's knee, drawing an unexpected reaction of slack-jawed surprise from the younger man. Eyes again locked, Gibbs decided to take the detective's approach to things.

He pulled out another slice and crammed most of it in his mouth.

He was still drunk enough to cross his eyes as he did so.

Delighted, Tony laughed, and the two started an impromptu eating contest, seeing who could finish their box first.

Tony won. But he had an unfair lead. That was Gibbs' story, and he was sticking to it.


	21. Chapter 21

_Grrrr to uploads not working again, or this would've been posted sooner! Well, a couple of hours sooner._

_If you notice any missing section breaks in my stories, please let me know. The little guys keep disappearing on me. I might have to consider other options for noting section breaks in the future, but I don't want to start a different format in the middle of a story... Or I'm lazy. Take your pick._

_Fair warning: This next section does overlap the end of the last chapter in a different POV and may not make much sense if you don't remember the last chapter._

* * *

It wasn't that he wasn't affected by what Gibbs had said. He was. It didn't feel good to have his father's words thrown back into his face by his current partner.

But it was not as devastating as it should have been.

When he'd climbed the stairs, he had intended to leave. Maybe never come back. But during his slow progress to the top, he'd realized he was annoyed. Grumpy. Miffed.

Gibbs had repeated Tony's own self-doubts, his worst fears aloud, and Tony was _miffed_?

Something didn't smell right.

He sat on the couch, reanalyzing. Since the pizza was handy, he took it down and munched.

He needed more interaction with Gibbs to figure out what was going on. Judging the quickest way to get the man upstairs, he jumped up and hopped over to the tv, snapping it on quickly, then hopped back, silently swearing the whole way.

His embarrassing tumble down the stairs had been no prank.

The top of his beer_ snocked_ open just as Gibbs arrived at the top of the stairs, looking like an enraged bull searching out a red flag to steamroll.

Tony was again surprised at his own reaction. He was calm. Contemplative. Amused, even. Yet Gibbs was no lightweight. There was no question he could be a mean bastard, that he was potentially a dangerous one.

DiNozzo studied his opponent briefly, flashing back to the first night they'd met. He wouldn't come out on top of or equal in a fight right now. He couldn't even stand. One tussle on the floor with his injured knee under him, and he'd be crying like a little blonde girl from a 1940s movie. Plus, Gibbs had kicked him right in the middle of his lovely bruise/scrape/scab side, which now pounded in counterbalance to the throbbing of his knee.

He discarded fight since it wasn't an option. And he discarded flight – he didn't want to leave or he would've already done so.

Instead, he engaged. Taunted the berserker forward.

He half-expected Gibbs to be egged on by the reference to divorce; to find himself in a Marine-whammy headlock and smashed against the coffee table head-first.

Gibbs stopped in his tracks and dropped, defeated, onto the sofa, staring at Tony as though he were the alien here.

Maybe he was. He felt oddly unemotional, even detached. He should be upset, angry.

More than likely there was something wrong with him. Broken Tony, pretending to be a real boy but never getting it quite right.

He forced the situation again. Crammed a whole piece of pizza in his mouth and smiled widely. It would have infuriated his father.

Gibbs groaned and covered his head with his arms. When his stomach gurgled, Tony tossed a box of pizza on his lap, silently encouraging the soaking up of too much hard liquor with the pretty damn good pizza.

Gibbs ate.

Suddenly he muttered, "You're not a waste of time, Tony. You're just supremely irritating sometimes."

Contradictory information was not helpful from someone who'd been drinking. No way to know which version was the real one. "I don't care what you think right now. Tell me when you're sober, and maybe I'll listen. After we catch the killer."

The agent stared at him for a moment, then abruptly rose and left the room. Heart falling, DiNozzo thought he'd gone too far, driven the man away.

Failed again at making a human connection. Served him right for trying. He was only good for surface friendship. He knew that.

Tony was halfway to standing when Gibbs returned to the room, crossing quickly and settling two bags of frozen veggies on either side of his knee.

What the hell was this?

Gibbs sat and reclaimed his pizza box, shoving most of a slice into his mouth and trying to copy Tony's earlier smile.

It was a gruesome sight.

Tony laughed without intending to. Had Gibbs just crossed his eyes? Gibbs? Impossible. The man must be drunker than he thought.

Silently, the two started a different kind of battle. A manly man's battle.

An eating contest.

Tony won. He raised his hands in victory as the last swallow went down, with Gibbs still a slice and a half behind.

Gibbs rolled his eyes, but smiled. He clapped his greasy hand on Tony's shoulder.

There was an air of relief in the movement, an easy gesture of subtle relaxation. A certain unspoken pleasure at the fact that they had so quickly gotten beyond the nastiness of before. The satisfaction of a stubborn man realizing he wouldn't have to push himself to actually apologize.

But that would mean the temptation to actually apologize existed.

Suddenly, Tony realized why the earlier words had annoyed, but nothing more.

"You didn't mean it, did you? What you said downstairs."

Gibbs shrugged, looking away, uncomfortable.

Oddly, Gibbs looking uncomfortable made Tony more aggressive, more sure of himself.

"How did you know what to say? That's pretty quick investigating, pushing all my buttons like that."

"You're still here."

"Not because you didn't use the right words. Because you were trying to drive me away."

"Ornery much?"

"Could be. But in my experience, if people really think you're a waste of space they cut you out. Ignore you. Distain you. You don't get close enough to be driven away. And you're not considered worth the effort."

Silence ensued as both men realized what the detective had unconsciously revealed. No wonder Gibbs had the right fodder to throw at him. Dealing with that damn "missing" kid this morning had presented half his insecurities on a freakin' silver platter.

The relative emotional detachment he'd been surfing on ended. His full stomach suddenly roiled, hungry piranha eager to teach him a lesson by destroying his insides.

He tried to shift back to humor. "You were putting an awful lot of effort into getting me out the door. I must be something special."

Tony was unprepared for Gibbs' eyes to catch his and hold. He was completely and utterly caught off guard by the man's next words, echoing his own. "Could be."

Suddenly coldly furious at being played with, Tony rose, disregarding physical state. He breathed in, ready to release his own barrage of foul words when Gibbs swept the ankle of his good leg out from under him, effectively tumbling the detective back onto the couch.

Gibbs tone was mild. "Don't much care for explaining myself, Tony. But I'll say this once, just to be clear. You're not wrong."

He wasn't? About what?

"I yell at you, you take it as a sign that you're worth the effort of yelling at. I decide you're not worth the effort, you won't hear from me anymore. Clear?"

Actually, it was. He liked it. It was like they had their own little secret handshake.

Tony shrugged an unconcerned agreement.

Gibbs smirked at him, not fooled.

Tony started bracing himself to stand, to leave. Hell with this. The guy was just messing with him. He didn't need this shit. The doubts, the hopes, the anxiety. This wasn't him, from detached self-assurance to a fucking panic attack in mere seconds. He didn't need Gibbs' approval. He didn't even want it.

Gibbs replaced the frozen veggies on either side of Tony's abused knee. "Never liked peas much. Wife kept buying them." He grunted, stopping himself. "Ex-wife. Glad to see the end of them."

Tony stayed.

* * *

Ducky pulled into Gibbs' drive at ten o'clock that night, concerned when he saw the detective's car parked out front.

Surely if the two had gotten into a fight and one had been incapacitated, the other would have called him.

Right?

He hurriedly exited his vehicle and mounted the stairs, letting himself quietly into the house. He had intended to go straight to the stairs leading to the basement and rap against the wall at the top. If Gibbs yelled, "Go away!" he would proceed downstairs. If a glass flew through the air and smashed against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, he would leave. It was their unagreed-upon signal.

If his knocking was met with silence – well, that would not be a good sign this evening.

He stopped in his tracks only a few steps into the house, seeing the television was on, the volume very low. He was not sure he had ever seen the television on in Jethro's house before.

Movement drew his attention.

Gibbs' head rose from the back of a chair, where it looked as if he'd been napping. "Duck?"

At the sound of his voice, the bleary head of young Anthony popped up over the back of the couch, hair all askew.

Gibbs rose with a wince – served him right for falling asleep in an armchair – and approached the sofa.

The detective turned to look at him, eyes squinted against the low light.

Gibbs lightly smacked him on the back of the head. "Go back to sleep, DiNozzo."

With a "Mmmph" of agreement, the young man flopped back down, pulling a couch cushion over his head.

Gibbs reached down and removed two bags of something, disappearing into the kitchen.

Approaching closer as to see over the back of the sofa, Ducky realized Anthony's injured knee was propped up on several pillows, likely inflamed again due to whatever the two had been up to this evening. The coffee table was scattered with empty cans of beer and a mostly-empty bottle of bourbon. Gibbs' personal pain remedy.

Alone for a moment, Ducky allowed himself to briefly speculate on who the remedy had been for. Was it too much to hope they'd partaken together?

Gibbs returned from the kitchen, bearing two new bags of frozen food. He placed them on either side of Anthony's knee, then yawned widely. "Problem, Duck?"

Momentarily speechless, Ducky declined to immediately answer.

"You got the right machines in your lab to look at his knee?"

"If you can drag him down there, yes, I can take a closer look at it tomorrow."

"Oh, I'll drag him." The expression that accompanied the look was as close to gleeful as Leroy Jethro Gibbs ever got.

Ducky gracefully exited the house, making his apologies for waking both men up.

As he walked back to his Morgan, he let his speculation run even further.

Had Tony ended up staying because the state of his knee did not allow him to drive the manual transmission on his car? Or was it possible that Tony stayed – at least in part – because he recognized that Gibbs could use some company? Some frustrating, hard-to-ignore, hard-to-hate company?

Either way, Gibbs had let him stay.

Ducky smiled the whole way home.

* * *

The next morning found Gibbs driving and Tony riding, though the detective protested his knee was fine enough to drive.

Gibbs snorted and pointed at the passenger side of the motor pool Dodge, and in one of his strange moments of easy compliance, Tony simply got in without further fuss.

They stopped for coffee and donuts, where DiNozzo purchased more pastries than a normal man could eat in a week, then went straight to the office. Tony greeted both security guards at the entrance by name, surprising Gibbs. When had that happened?

Tony slipped them a bag of donuts with an overly secretive flourish before leaving.

Hmm.

He headed straight for Ducky's lab at a slower than normal pace, and Tony followed willingly along. "Think Ducky's got something?"

"Worth checking on."

As they exited the elevator and entered autopsy, DiNozzo cheerfully called out a greeting to the doctor.

Gibbs braced himself in the doorway, arms crossed.

"Gibbs, you look like a bouncer." Tony's cheerful tone started to fade, replaced with suspicion. "What exactly is going on right now?"

Ducky advanced. "This, young Anthony, is an intervention. Now take off your pants."

Someone clapped and hooted from Ducky's office, and Abby emerged. "Take it off!"

Gibbs raised a single eyebrow. She could be mocking DiNozzo, but it sure sounded like friendly mocking. Had he missed something?

"I got you a donut, Abs, but you can't have it if you're in cahoots with these guys." The kid plastered a hurt look across his clown face.

Ducky was slowly pulling on plastic gloves, letting each settle with a _snap_ of the latex against his wrists. "Abby, you had best leave now."

Gibbs concurred. "Abby, scoot."

"I want to stay for the show. Especially if I'm not getting breakfast."

Scowling, Gibbs repeated his order. "Abby, get your butt in gear."

She fake pouted at him, not unlike the face Tony was making right now. Though the detective's expression held a tinge of green realness as he eyed the doctor's advance.

"It's not like he's gonna get totally naked," she protested. Then pulled off a lascivious grin. "Hey Ducky, are you gonna make him get totally naked?"

Gibbs barked, "Hey! I said move your ass!" When had he lost control? Abby always did what he said. Asked. Possibly he should ask. He was about to, when DiNozzo spoke up.

"What's the matter, Abby? Is the bad man picking on you?" He released that god-awful magnetic grin, the one that made everyone in the room want to smile back or hit him.

Abby smiled back, striding over to him to rifle through the donut bag. "It's okay, you get used to it. He means well." She shot a grin over her shoulder at Gibbs while continuing to take liberties with DiNozzo's pastries.

Well, shit. He liked it better when the two of them didn't get along. This new development felt like trouble personified.

She tossed a meaningful glance at Gibbs that he refused to acknowledge, then officially restated her opinion of the detective by stating, in front of Gibbs, "You were right, Tony. Collins' tattoo was less than a month old. It's the work of a real artist, not a tattoo chop shop, so I should be able to find who inked him assuming he got it close to home."

Abby kissed Tony on the cheek and Gibbs considered killing him. "But they're right. Intervention time."

The detective squawked as she turned on one foot and sauntered to the exit with a cinnamon twist, leaving him with one less shield. Gibbs let her past, and she kissed him on the cheek as well before leaving. "You boys have fun!"

"Abby!"

She turned.

Tony tossed her the rest of the donuts. "Feed the probies."

"Will do!" She exited, headed upstairs.

Resigned, Tony watched her go. Resignation changed to mutiny as Ducky ordered him to the x-ray machine. He backed towards the door, where he met a solid Gibbs, who merely said, "Do it."

Reluctantly, he did.

Ducky telegraphed every move he made well in advance, yet here and there, little moments of unease showed through in the detective's demeanor.

Did he expect them to lock him up? Kick him off the case? Hurt him more? Ridicule him for getting hurt on the job?

In truth, he hadn't gotten hurt on the job. Not in the course of chasing the killer. He'd been hurt – more than once – dealing with Gibbs. Watching out for an ungrateful, bastardass special agent who tossed scathing words in his face as thanks.

And yet the kid kept coming back for more. He didn't even have enough sense to protect himself.

Refusing to acknowledge the gloominess of that realization, Gibbs returned to his post as bouncer.

* * *

"Tattoo?" Gibbs asked, as they both finally left autopsy a half hour later. Tony now had a small bottle of pain pills – which he would not use – and a stern lecture to rest his knee more often and use his crutches when he did move about – which he would not do.

"Noticed Collins had one. Thought Abby might be able to dig up more, since she seems to be a fan." Tony's terse statements were a sign of his sulking. He didn't care for being poked and prodded.

Not that Gibbs blamed him.

They rode the elevator up to the bullpen in silence, only to learn that the probies had unearthed no new leads to follow.

Scrubbing one hand across his bottom lip in frustration, Tony glanced at Gibbs. "I really, really, really need to interrogate someone right now."

Gibbs nodded. "Okay. Let's go pick someone up."

They headed back to the car.


	22. Chapter 22

Theorizing that their serial killer may have been sloppier when he was first getting started, Gibbs and DiNozzo returned to the oldest case file in their stack.

Ella Cross. 87. Mowed down at night by a truck when she was walking home from the bus stop after winning big ($76) at bingo that night. The money was still in her purse when she was found the next morning.

It was the stuff of movies.

Crappy movies.

Crappy made-for-tv movies.

Tony had the file memorized. Including the pictures.

On occasion, he wished he could take a stiff brush to the inside of his head and scrub it clean.

For now, though, his memory of the cases was useful, eliminating the need to constantly stop and reference files.

They went in search of one Theodore Cross, Ms. Ella's grandson. He was the only suspect in the original investigation, which was later deemed a hit-and-run.

In DiNozzo's estimation, not too many hit-and-runs backed up and ran over their victim again.

Twice.

Teddy was the sole inheritor of Ms. Ella's estate, which wasn't huge, but was certainly a step up in the world for a young man who'd previously been living in a crappy apartment with three other guys, eating ramen and squabbling over toilet paper usage.

Cross claimed to have an alibi for the night of the murder, but the girlfriend he said he was with never came forward to confirm.

Plus, he seemed shifty. Tony hated shifty. The kid was definitely up to something.

Anyone who'd ever taken their detective's exam (or watched a tv crime drama) knew the basics of serial killer hunting: If there were mistakes to be found, any personal connections to the killer that could be exploited, it would either be in the earliest cases before he learned to cover his tracks, or in the latest cases if he was falling apart.

Teddy was their best bet at the early end of the spectrum.

"You talk to this kid before?" Gibbs asked as the two approached Teddy's grandmother's house.

"Not my case. Didn't know there was anything to pay attention to at the time."

Gibbs nodded and rapped on the door; a moment later it opened.

A young red-headed punk who appeared far too influenced by the dubious fashion stylings of Warren from _Empire Records_ opened the door and squinted out at them in the harsh sun, bouncing off the snow white yard. "What?"

"Theodore Cross? Gibbs, NCIS. Have a few follow up questions to the investigation into your grandmother's death." Badges flashed.

Teddy shrugged and let them in.

DiNozzo's eyes took in the walls as he stepped into a formal living room. Some evidence of a younger inhabitant showed – the massive TV and a kiwi Game Boy Color for example – but the floral couch was still in place, and pictures of Ms. Ella with a young Teddy were still propped on the mantle.

Gibbs and Tony shared an easy look, both checking to make sure the other saw the same. The couch might've stayed because it wasn't a reminder of anything, or because it was too bulky to bother with. But the pictures were easy to shove to the side or dispose of. Either there was no guilty conscience at play here, or there was no conscience at all.

"You're not the same cops I talked to before," Teddy stated rudely, as he dropped to the couch without offering his guests a seat.

"Ms. Ella didn't teach you those manners, kid," Tony said, roaming the room.

"What do you want, anyway?"

"What do you think we want?" Gibbs asked, eyebrow raised.

"To pin me for running my Gran down, which I so did not do."

Gibbs and Teddy went over Teddy's alibi again while Tony ambled freely about, taking in the room and considering the best approach.

The room was cluttered, but clean. Kinda strange for a twenty-year-old guy living by himself.

Trying to identify a faint scent, Tony inhaled deeply and then suddenly sneezed when he finally identified the ancient echoes of potpourri, likely disposed of by Teddy.

He sneezed into his elbow, but noticed the Cross kid scowl at him from across the room.

Strange.

On a hunch, he went to pick up the Game Boy from the coffee table.

"Don't touch that!" came a quick command from the kid, who snatched it away before Tony could put his hands on it.

Smiling, Tony suggested, "I think we should move this interview to the station house."

* * *

Since it had been DiNozzo's idea to move the interrogation to the station, Gibbs allowed him to start the interview by himself, warning the detective that he had ten minutes to make some progress, or he'd lose his solo status in there.

While DiNozzo disappeared somewhere, citing the need to prepare himself for god-knew-what, Gibbs got himself coffee at the now-familiar small cafeteria and then found his way to Observation C.

There were more people in the tiny observation room than Gibbs anticipated. They seemed rather jovial, so he figured they weren't waiting for the interrogation room to open up for their own use. In his experience, waiting for something you needed rarely encouraged a good mood.

Maybe the department called for a certain number of mandatory hours spent watching interrogations? Could be. He didn't know much about how local PDs ran internally.

Leo slipped into the room and bobbed his head at several plain clothes detectives. He smiled awkwardly and cracked his knuckles, keeping up a constant stream of nervous hand gestures and submissive body language as he slipped through the room to Gibbs' side.

"Come to watch your partner work, Leo?"

Softly, the kid replied, "He's your partner, not mine."

"I don't need a damned partner."

The younger man shrugged. "Maybe so."

"Definitely so. Doesn't seem like DiNozzo's doing so bad without a partner, either."

Whitford cast him a look that didn't fit the still-in-character body. "Maybe so."

His conversation with Leo was interrupted by the arrival of Tony and Teddy in the adjacent room.

Funny how all conversations with Leo seemed to be interrupted before they went anywhere.

Gibbs expected to see DiNozzo's take on a standard intimidation ploy. Something akin to what Gibbs himself had pulled on the squad's rookies a few days before. Or, perhaps, an engaging tone like the one the detective had used while interviewing the staff at Bowser's; friendlier overtures could lead the suspect into giving away more than he intended, or more than he thought he knew.

He should have known better than to expect a derivative of a standard technique from DiNozzo.

"A-chOO."

The moment DiNozzo opened the door, he sneezed violently. He closed the door, then pulled out a handkerchief and issued a series of overly-loud sneezes and hacks as he stumbled towards the chair opposite Teddy Cross.

Sitting down in the chair heavily, he tossed a wary glance at his suspect through watery eyes. "You wearing some kinda cologne, man? Like a cheap K-Mart brand? I got a great sniffer, it can't handle bottles that cost five bucks."

"No man, come on." Teddy crossed his arms like the badass he no doubt wanted to be.

"Aftershave?"

"No way. That shit's for pussies."

"Huh. Maybe really strong deodorant?" The detective sneezed violently again.

Cross just gave him a look that questioned his sanity.

Gibbs gave the same look to Leo.

The scrawny man's reply was a short, real-looking grin and a finger to his lips. _Shut up and watch._

DiNozzo continued. "You got a girl, man? Maybe she's got some heavy perfume tendencies? I mean, you get a hot enough girl, I get how you could overlook a little overdo on the froufrou. But that crap can stick to your skin for days, you know?"

Teddy scowled, in no way afraid of his interrogator. "I ain't got no girl, man."

"Hooker?"

"No! I don't need to pay for it." His scornful look at Tony suggested that perhaps the other man did.

Tony made a sound similar to a cat hacking up a hairball. He fumbled at some files he'd brought in. "Says here…says you got a girl named Carmel." He grinned goofily. "Pretty name. Pretty girl?"

"I don't gotta tell you shit."

Tony sneezed into his handkerchief again. "Maybe it's your shampoo. Let me smell your head." He got up and approached Teddy's chair.

"Get the hell away from me, man! I got rights!"

"I'm pretty sure your rights don't specify that I can't smell your hair. Come on, Teddy. Sit still and let me smell. Maybe you got lice or something? That de-lousing hair stuff smells really strong."

"I ain't got no lice, man!" Belatedly, Teddy tried to squirm out of his chair to get away from the insane detective.

He was too late.

Tony leaned down to take a deep sniff of Cross' hair, and then his breath hitched.

The observation room fell silent and still.

DiNozzo's breath hitched once more, inhaling in an unsteady pattern.

Teddy wiggled, but DiNozzo had leaned down with his arms on either side of the kid, and apparently Teddy was not smart enough to realize he could slither down the chair under the table to get away.

As it was, when the _ah-ah-ah_ inhales finally resulted in one massive outward explosion, said explosion ended up right in Teddy's hair.

A slow, rolling snicker overtook the observation room.

Tony looked embarrassed. "Oh, Teddy. I'm so sorry, man. You were right, your hair doesn't smell at all. And now I've…" He paused, as if in mortification. "Well, looks like I've got a sinus infection. I shouldn't have blamed you all along."

The detective reached out his finger and took a swipe through Cross' hair. He shoved it down into the kid's face.

"Look. See that green snot? Total sign of a sinus infection."

Teddy shrieked like a little girl, so intent on wiggling away from Tony that he failed to notice there was nothing on the finger in his face.

"Though I still think there's some hint of perfume around you. I bet that's Carmel's scent. Right? Here, let me smell again."

DiNozzo finally let Cross slip away from him, then proceeded to go after him. "Come on, just one sniff!"

The kid slammed to the floor on his knees, scrabbling into a corner. "What do you _want_ from me?"

"Just a little smell, Teddy." His face was all innocence as he advanced.

The snickers turned to guffaws.

Apparently the room was full for a very specific reason.

Leo looked over at him, eyes shining in mirth. "The DiNozzo Method of Interrogation."

"I don't got a girl named Carmel, okay!"

"I'm confused, Teddy. You said right here in your statement during the investigation into your grandmother's death that you were with your girl Carmel. Don't tell me you broke up already?"

"I was with Carmel!"

"Great, then tell me where she is. I'd love to talk to her. Get this whole matter settled."

Cross paused, not so stupid.

Tony opened his handkerchief and stared into it. "Geez, the evidence was here all along. See, look…" he turned it so the used side was facing Teddy and advanced. "Look at this! Look, how if you look at it under the florescent light it's all yellow-green, but if you hold it up to the little window here, it's almost lime green. I gotta see a doctor, man. That can't be normal."

"Carmel's not a girl!" Cross cried, arms up over his face protectively.

DiNozzo paused. "Okay. So Carmel's a guy? Guys can wear perfume too; hey, I'm no bigot."

"No! Carmel's a bottle."

"Teddy, that's gross."

"Of whiskey! When I'm out with Carmel, I'm smuggling whiskey! Across the Canadian border, so I can sell it here."

Tony sat down on the floor next to Cross and leaned in. "Teddy…you do realize whiskey is _legal _in the US. Right?"

A spark lit in Cross' eyes. Apparently now that he'd confessed, he was going to stand up for what he believed in. "Nobody wants to give Canadian whisky a fair shot. They just go after all that shit from Tennessee, or Kentucky bourbon. And with all the import taxes, the Canadian brands are so much more expensive that they'll never take hold here. I'm just trying to give them a fair shake, man!"

DiNozzo let his head slam back to the wall behind him with a _thunk._ Talk about your dead ends.

He shoved his clean handkerchief into his pocket and leveraged himself up, using Teddy's shoulder as a boost.

"Don't touch me with that hand!"

Tony pulled the kid to his feet. "Geez, Teddy. Maybe you'll get sent to Canadian jail. Maybe it's nicer there. I don't think you'll do so well in a good ol' US prison."

He marched the boy out of the room muttering something about hoping to see a Mountie as Gibbs turned back to Leo.

The slight man looked back at him with a shrug and a small smile. "Whatever else you call it, it is effective." He ducked his head, as though afraid. Quietly, he added, "You should ask Tony about Philadelphia."

Leo slipped out of the room as the chuckling crowd began to trickle out.

Gibbs went off in search of Vice…or whatever department DiNozzo was turning the dangerous whiskey smuggler over to.

This case was starting to piss him off.


	23. Chapter 23

_Quick note to Tonysmel in case you don't already know - I've tried to respond to your questions and reviews, but the site says you've got PMs disabled._

_And to all - thanks for your support! I hope you enjoy the next installations. Next two chapters are mostly written, so hopefully there will be faster updates for a bit._

* * *

Greene was tired of being tied to his desk and his phone. He was sick to death of chasing down old leads on old cases without even having a good working knowledge of what Gibbs was doing in the field.

Not that he wanted to be alone with Gibbs in the field.

Some of the other NCIS agents teased him about being replaced by DiNozzo. But it was so far from the truth he laughed right back at the ribbing. Gibbs took Tony places, treated him like he might have a useful opinion from time to time. Greene and Wadusky, on the other hand, tagged along to crime scenes but never to interviews. Twice Gibbs had taken them to apprehend a suspect, but he'd always kept them behind him, like ducklings too dumb to cross the road on their own.

Greene knew he was raw. He also knew Gibbs wasn't a good teacher. The man wasn't patient, at least not with anyone but Abby. He didn't slow down to show his probies what he was doing, or why he did it, or how they should do it. If they couldn't learn on the fly, then they wouldn't learn at all.

It wasn't even considered a failure within NCIS to be booted off of Gibbs' team. It was assumed everyone would be, and sooner rather than later.

If DiNozzo could put up with Gibbs' crap, he was welcome to it.

Abby stalked into the bullpen, pigtails slashing through the air, hands on the chain running around her hips. "Ducky gave me Tony's cell, but it's going straight to voice mail. Is Gibbs around?"

Greene stood, eager for any interruption. "Gibbs and DiNozzo took off. They mentioned an interrogation, I guess they went after a suspect."

"Did you get a replacement for Gibbs' cell phone yet?"

"No. Wouldn't he do that himself?"

"Good luck with that. If they call in, tell them Tony's hunch might've panned out. Collins got his tattoo at a place called Max's in Baltimore. At least two of the other victims were there in the last five years."

She stalked on. Wadusky, who had been building a fort out of #2 pencils at his desk while he sat on hold with a county coroner, trying to verify the death of a suspect in one of the killer's earliest murders, leaned over his desk in his efforts to continue letting his eyes follow the progress of Abby's behind around the corner. He impaled himself on lead for his efforts but seemed not to notice.

Dropping back into his seat, Greene pulled up a map to Max's and called the Baltimore station house.

"Sergeant Dixon speaking."

"Sergeant, I'm trying to reach Detective DiNozzo, or better yet the NCIS agent he's been working with."

"Haven't seen 'em. Could put you through to DiNozzo's voice mail."

"No, thanks." He hung up.

He tapped his thumb on the desk.

He checked the map.

The chances of Gibbs coming back to the office in the next three hours were fairly slim. And if he did, so what? If his probies weren't there, what could he do? Kick them off his team?

Fine. Anything would be better than being assigned to a field team, but unable to work in the field.

He eyed Wadusky. Checked the map again.

Baltimore wasn't so far away.

* * *

Tony found Gibbs waiting for him in the hall after he dropped Teddy off at a jail cell.

Whatever reaction he'd expected from the man, he didn't get it. Gibbs merely raised an eyebrow at him.

Feeling the need to fill the silence, he said, "Well, looks like Teddy isn't our guy."

Miraculously, the corner of Gibbs' mouth ticked up and he made a small, quick choking noise. A smile spread across his face for a second before he wiped it off. "Yep."

Was he being laughed at or with? DiNozzo smiled uneasily and changed the subject. "I gotta check my messages real quick." Gibbs seemed about to protest, so Tony handily followed it up with, "You never did say where my phone was. Got it on you?"

"It slipped."

"Slipped where?"

"Paint thinner."

"My phone grew legs and slipped on paint thinner?"

"Into paint thinner."

"Ah, my phone grew legs and, afraid of your terse conversational style, committed suicide by slipping itself into paint thinner. Makes much more sense." He started walking back towards his desk.

Gibbs scowled, which Tony was comfortable with. "Where'd you learn to interrogate a suspect? Clown college?"

"I tried the by-the-book stuff, but it only works on a handful of perps. I find the process goes more quickly if you identify either what they're afraid of or what annoys the shit out of them and go after that." And screw anyone who didn't like it. At least he got results, and didn't waste a day doing it.

"Worked."

Gibbs voice was gruff, but that sure sounded like a compliment.

He continued, "Wouldn't work on most Marines, though. Too much training to fall for something like that."

A compliment followed by a statement that reduced the compliment to shreds. That felt more like Gibbs' style.

"Might be able to tweak it a little, though, make it work on more people."

Now Tony raised an eyebrow.

They'd reached the door to Homicide, and he decided to let the subject drop for now. Too bizarre.

Easing down into his much-loved beaten-up chair, he grabbed his phone and started jotting down notes from his messages while Gibbs poked at the files on his desk impatiently.

He ignored the fact that Delilla was staring at them from across the room.

"Abby says Collins' tattoo came from a place called Max's, and at least two of our other victims have used the same place according to credit card receipts."

"Recently?"

"Over the last five years. Could be a coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidences."

"It does sound like a fishy word. Coincidence. Co-incidental. Who are they trying to kid?"

"You know where this place is?"

"Yeah. I'll drive." He hesitated.

"What?" Gibbs demanded. "Spit it out."

"You're not gonna like it."

"Well I for sure don't like not knowing whatever the hell you're not talking about."

"I think you should follow my lead there."

"Why?"

"It's pretty defined gang territory. I know some of those guys. We should be okay, but don't play the fed card. And keep your jacket zipped up so they can't see your gun."

"They that twitchy?"

He looked Gibbs straight in the eye and scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "Yeah. They're that twitchy."

Gibbs nodded slowly. "Okay. Your lead."

Tony grinned. Sweeter words from Leroy Jethro Gibbs' mouth had likely never been heard.

* * *

No matter what Mallace had tried to do to ruin DiNozzo's reputation at the squad house, it hadn't worked. From what Gibbs had seen in interrogation and in Tony's brief exchanges with passing coworkers, the kid was well-liked and respected. Everyone seemed to keep a certain distance from him, but was that because they wanted to avoid Mallace's wrath, or because DiNozzo did a fine and dandy job at keeping them at arm's length himself?

Gibbs suspected the latter.

He also suspected his earlier suspicions about Delilla were correct. The older detective watched Tony like a hawk, as though he had to report back on DiNozzo's actions to someone.

Mallace?

He hoped Whitford took Mallace down. And soon. The buffoon was an affront to LEOs everywhere.

His blood was pumping faster now as Tony parked the car. He frowned as he realized it was in direct response to DiNozzo's own reaction – well hidden, but still noticeable in the dilation of his pupils, the faster hand motions, the slight sharpening of his movements.

Danger.

They got out of the fleet car and locked it, though DiNozzo cast a doubtful look at it as though he did not expect it to be there when they returned. Turning up the collar of his coat, he jerked his head to the right and led the way. As they rounded the corner, Tony stopped and arranged his features into a big, easy smile.

"Ricky," he greeted a small man covered in gold chains who was surrounded by very, very large men who looked like they used chains for other purposes.

"Tony," came the return greeting, accompanied by a snake-like smile. "Need something?"

"I got no beef with your guys today, Ricky. I just need to go into Max's, talk to the guys there. Might be a tie to a case."

"Let me guess, a pretty white college kid got his ass killed after wandering into the ghetto. News at ten." His companions sneered.

"It's true, actually. But not just him. Been a bunch of cases lately, feel connected to me. Might be a tie to Max's."

Surprised by Tony's candor, Gibbs nonetheless remained silent and still. Every man in the group was packing. If DiNozzo knew these jerkoffs and thought the best way to handle them was to tell them the truth, he trusted the detective.

Wow. He meant that. When had that happened?

Ricky rubbed a hand across his shaved scalp. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." DiNozzo cocked his head to the side. "You know something?"

"Word is, there's a boogeyman. Street people's calling him The Basher. The Baltimore Basher, I guess. Not very original, but it gets the message out."

"You know anything about him?"

Ricky made an obvious decision to continue the conversation and relaxed, causing his men to relax a bit as well.

Gibbs remained not relaxed.

"Nah. I don't think he's one of my guys, or our competition. Or any of the street people – guy's got access to trucks and stuff, moves around the city, ain't got no pattern that we know."

"Are there victims that weren't reported to the police?"

"For sure."

Tony closed his eyes for a moment; a bonehead move that could've cost him something dear if Ricky had been looking for an opening.

"How many?"

"No way of knowing. Maybe ten, fifteen you wouldn't know about. Maybe more."

Shit.

"Shit, Ricky! Nobody could think of a single cop that maybe they should mention this to? It's a serial killer. Asking the cops for help with a serial killer can't be breaking the damn code."

Ricky shrugged, uncomfortable. "And you'd believe us?"

Tony dared to lean in close, less than an inch from the shorter man's face. "I'd believe."

Ricky nodded and rubbed his bald head again. "I can see if I can gather some details. One of my guys, he found a crow bar by one of the bodies. Ain't gonna work for prints or nothing, he's had it too long, but you can have it if you want." He made a sharp gesture to a large, round man behind him who opened his coat and pulled out a long piece of metal, preparing to hand it over.

Opening that coat also revealed a rather large gun that made Gibbs twitchy, but he felt Tony had the situation under control and stayed calm and stock still.

Unfortunately, Greene and Wadusky had no such knowledge as they rounded the corner behind Gibbs and DiNozzo just at the moment that the huge man reached for the metal bar – which could easily be misinterpreted as reaching for the gun parked right beside it.

"GUN!" Shouted Wadusky, as both he and Greene pulled their own weapons, causing most of Ricky's thugs to pull theirs.

Facing eight weapons pointed at his head was apparently too much for the youngest probie.

He fired.


	24. Chapter 24

_Warning: if swearing bothers you, you might want to avoid my fics in general. I have a liberal word policy. _

* * *

Wadusky fired, and the big thug reaching for the crowbar went down screaming.

Ricky snarled and pulled his gun, pressing its cold metal tip straight to Tony's temple. "You set this up for fun? You think you can fuck with me?"

There had been time for DiNozzo to draw his own gun, but he hadn't. Instead, he moved to cover all three NCIS agents, spreading his arms out high and wide, both showing he was not holding a weapon and trying to create a shield against what seemed an inevitable hail of bullets.

He shot Gibbs a look that the agent interpreted as a warning. _Don't draw your gun. Don't do it._

It went against all of his training, but he didn't. Gibbs unzipped his jacket, hand hovering over the holster, but he did not touch it.

"Rookies, Ricky. Rookies. Look at them. They're just kids. Baby cops." Tony's words were quiet and soothing, a tumble of verbal band-aids. "This wasn't planned. I told you why I'm here. You know me, this isn't my style. Baby cops, Ricky. Dumb, dumb, dumb baby cops."

Ricky's eyes were crazy, but he hadn't fired. His men were better trained than Gibbs' probies; they waited for orders to shoot.

In a move of breathtaking stupidity, DiNozzo turned around completely, arms still spread, now facing Greene and Wadusky, leaving Ricky's gun pressed to the back of his head.

"What precisely are you doing here?" He asked in an eerily pleasant voice.

Wadusky's face was white and his hand was shaking. His whole body was shaking. If he didn't put the gun down soon, they'd have another problem on their hands.

Greene was frozen. At Tony's mild-sounding question, his eyes jerked away from the man on the ground and onto the detective's. "Abby…Abby found a tie to this tattoo parlor. We couldn't reach you. I thought…" His voice faltered.

"Put your guns down," DiNozzo ordered quietly, and Greene complied, lowering his pistol. Wadusky still did not move, his shaking hand pointed straight at Ricky.

"Put. Your gun. Down, Wadusky. Now!" In a remarkably commanding tone Gibbs would not have thought Tony capable of, the detective exuded authority that the younger of the two probies finally paid attention to. He cast a wild glance at Tony, failing to believe the order could be true.

A look at Tony's face convinced him otherwise, and he lowered his weapon.

Tony stilled for a moment. Gibbs thought he was taking stock of the situation, hoping Ricky would command his crew to back off.

A tall, thin man crouched down over the large man who had been shot. "He's bleeding bad, man. Passed out already. Doesn't look too good."

Ricky screamed wordlessly, spittle flying onto Tony's neck.

Still the detective did not turn around.

"Gibbs," he said quietly.

"Yeah, DiNozzo?" Though he'd been through hairy situations before, it still mildly surprised him that his voice was soft and steady.

"Go take their guns, please."

Slowly, unbelieving that this was a good idea, Gibbs stepped forward. Nine steps later he made it to Greene and Wadusky and reached a hand out to each of them, taking their guns.

"Bring them here."

As Gibbs walked back to Tony, he held the younger man's eyes.

It was a disturbing moment. DiNozzo's eyes were clear and alert, but showed no sense of self-preservation. He looked like a man ready and willing to jump on a grenade to save the unit.

And there was no way for Gibbs to stop it.

All he could do was follow the detective's lead, as he'd agreed to do back at the station house.

And hope this hadn't turned into a suicide mission.

His nine steps were up, and Gibbs put the guns on the ground by Tony's feet as the other man gestured him to do, then stepped back. But only once.

Tony looked back at the probies, again with dominance in his face and voice. "Sit down on the ground, hands out in front of you."

They complied. Greene aptly turned green, Wadusky went from white to blue in the face.

Finally, DiNozzo started to turn back to face Ricky. He turned slowly, and did not try to pull away from the gun, letting its tip scrape along the side of his head as he moved. When it rested on his forehead, he stopped.

"Ricky, I've disarmed the stupid baby cops. Now there are two things that can happen here. You can start firing and probably kill all of us, after which you'll have not only the Baltimore PD, but the Navy and Marines on your ass, 'cause these are Navy cops. Eventually, you'll get dead. Or, you can put those guns away and we can get your guy to the hospital where he can get treated. Then you can go find a sleazy lawyer and sue the Navy cops for a boatload of cash."

He paused. "Personally, I'm voting for option number two."

Sirens blared in the distance.

"Don't think of it as not taking revenge for a shooting. Think of it as being smarter than the feds. Smart enough not to get pulled into a fight that'll eventually lose you a lot of men. If your crew is weak, Ricky, you know the other gangs aren't going to back you up. They'll obliterate you. It's a bad choice, I know it, but at least if you let it go you all walk away. And maybe you walk away with a couple million dollars for your troubles."

DiNozzo's voice was smooth and reassuring, his face intent but carefully free of anything that could be seen as condescension. He waited now, having made his move, letting the approaching sirens force Ricky's hand into making his decision.

Ricky cocked his gun.

All at once, Gibbs, Ricky, and Ricky's crew all noticed the blood dripping from DiNozzo's side, falling in fat _plip-plops_ to the dirty snow that covered the pavement at their feet.

Snorting, Ricky stashed his gun inside his jacket. "Ain't no one but babies gonna accidentally shoot through the leader they're trying to protect." He waved the rest of his guys to put their weapons away, and someone quickly hid the downed man's gun, kicking the crowbar to Tony.

DiNozzo lowered his hands and took out his badge as an ambulance and cop car came into view. The only guns in plain sight were the two lying at his feet.

Tony reached a hand down to his side, gingerly pulling material away from the spreading sticky red stain.

He looked at Gibbs with hangdog eyes. "You NCIS guys are seriously depleting my wardrobe."

Ricky laughed.

* * *

Gibbs kept both Greene and Wadusky's guns as he ordered them to drive back to the Navy Yard and park themselves in an interrogation room until he was damn well ready to deal with them.

They fled.

The first ambulance took Ricky's thug away, lights flashing and siren blaring. Tony stayed to calm the situation with the incumbent cops and give a preliminary report. Eventually he got Ricky and his crew free, and they trooped off to the hospital.

By then a second ambulance had arrived, and the EMTs were trying to work on Tony as he laughed and joked with the cops on scene.

Gibbs marched up behind the detective's ear and growled.

Rolling his eyes, Tony said his goodbyes, with promises to get in touch for a full report later and to make the probies available if need be.

"It's just a graze, Gibbs, or I would've lost a lot more blood that this."

He hopped up on the back of the ambulance and leaned back so the medic could peel his shirt off with a sick _slurp_ and take a closer look.

"What the hell?" The medic had apparently not been prepared to see a bullet wound on top of a watermelon-sized scrape haloed by a sickly green bruise.

Tony looked down. "Oops, forgot about that."

Gibbs growled at him again. "That's it, I'm calling Ducky."

DiNozzo looked up, now whiney. "Come on Gibbs, that's not necessary!"

"Shut up. Shut up!" Barely avoiding snapping out more furious words that rose unexpected from a place in his gut he thought long closed off, Gibbs tuned out the rest of the detective's complaints and made arrangements to follow the ambulance to the hospital.


	25. Chapter 25

_Thanks go to the runt duchess, who prompted the idea for the second half of this chapter, and to AlkalineTeegan, who not only lets me steal ideas, she provides me with entire lines to make them even better after I have already stolen them. Have you tried her, "Of Ghosts and Gremlins" - ? WHY NOT?_

* * *

By the time they reached the hospital and Gibbs was satisfied that DiNozzo was being treated immediately by doctors who appeared to be at least competent, Ducky had already heard about the incident.

"Yes, Jethro, I am on my way now. The director informed me of what happened, but only that there'd been a shooting and Anthony was injured. He did not know the severity of the wound. Is our detective okay?"

"Think it's just a graze, Duck. How the hell did the director know? It's been less than half an hour."

"Ah, well, men of power do have their sources. I did not think to question."

Gibbs grunted, unsatisfied.

"What hospital are you at?"

Gibbs rattled off the information, then hung up. A nurse came out to warn him that they were taking DiNozzo in for x-rays to make sure the bullet hadn't cracked or chipped any ribs, and that it would be at least an hour before they returned with the results.

He left in search of coffee.

Coming back from the cafeteria with truly subpar brew, he was stopped in the hall by a hail.

"Agent Gibbs! This is unexpected. I was just finishing my rounds here. I trust nothing dastardly has happened?" Solas looked concerned, but didn't shrinks always look concerned? He was trailed by his doughy intern.

Grudgingly, he answered. "DiNozzo got shot. Graze. He'll be fine."

"Did you apprehend the killer, then?"

"No. Different case." Sorta.

"Oh, that's too bad." Solas appeared severely disappointed. Maybe his shrink ways hadn't got in the way of a real connection with the Collins kid. "If there's anything I can do to help…"

"You ever do any profiling?"

"It's really not my area of expertise, but I suppose to some extent interactions with patients is initially always about profiling."

"We get some more suspects, maybe you could come by, watch the interrogations, give us your thoughts."

"Certainly. Anything I can do to help find Keith's killer."

The two men stood awkwardly for a moment. Gibbs finally turned and continued walking back to the waiting room.

"Would you like me to stay with you?" Solas called after him.

"Nope."

Both relieved, they parted.

* * *

Ducky arrived forty minutes later and quickly disappeared into the labyrinth of hospital corridors that medical professionals seemed to always find easy to navigate.

He returned four minutes later. "Ah, Jethro…there seems to be a small problem."

"What?" It _was_ just a graze. Right?

"Anthony has disappeared."

There was a pause.

"Disappeared?" Tense, Gibbs stood and paced towards his friend, who turned and headed back down the hall.

"They'd returned him to his examination room after the x-rays, but when a nurse came in to check on him, they found him missing."

There was no bustle. No security. No sign anyone was trying to find DiNozzo. "And?"

"And…apparently this happens quite often here with patients who are somewhat averse to sitting still. The nurses suspect he has not gone far; he has no shirt, for one thing."

Because he needed one damn more problem today. He pointed down the hall. "You go that way. Open every door."

"Jethro, that's hardly proper in a – "

"GO."

Ducky went.

Gibbs took off in the opposite direction, opening doors without apology. He checked behind the nurses' station, in other exam rooms, in closets, in the lobby. He opened the door to the men's room, walking in and pushing open each of the four stalls.

Nothing. The door swung closed again with a gentle swoosh.

Nothing. The door bounced at his harder shove, creaking back to its original position.

Nothing. The door jumped open and hit the stall wall, falling quickly shut again.

Nothing. The door slammed open and slammed shut again, clattering open and closed several more times before it settled back on its frame.

Though he heard nothing other than the sound of his own breathing once the doors were again at rest, Gibbs stilled. He continued on to the far wall of the room, following the pull of pure instinct. There was a place for a fifth stall that had never been utilized; instead it was just an empty space leading back to an old rusty radiator.

Which, of course, was where Tony was.

"DiNozzo!"

The man remained where he was, forehead to the cement brick wall, back to Gibbs, who slowly circled around to the detective's right side. DiNozzo's battered torso was uncovered except for a large white bandage taped in place. Mottled bruises covered his entire body, even his neck, which Gibbs had thought healed from their first fateful encounter.

"You got people waitin' on you. Get your ass in gear."

The detective rolled his head slightly, allowing him to peer at Gibbs with jaded, uninterested eyes.

It was too reminiscent of Stevie. "We gonna stand here all day?"

"Nope."

"You got a plan, then?"

"Nope."

"Mind telling me why not?"

A smile stretched across Tony's face, but it was a lifeless thing, a cringe-inducing mockery of a smile. "Maybe I'll hang out here, make some new friends."

"You have a lot of worthwhile conversations in the men's room, Tony?"

"No, but there's always room to hope."

"This your form of a breakdown?" He regretted it after he said it aloud. But he made no apology. It was a valid question. Many people who were calm in stressful situations often paid the price later. And Gibbs could think of no other reason for this odd behavior – if the man was having problems with physical pain, he'd have stayed in the exam room for whatever relief the doc could give him.

He braced himself for a torrent of emotion. Or maybe some DiNozzo deflections. Some, "I'm fine's" or a redirect to case details.

But that's not what he got.

Instead he got massive scorn.

"I don't break down. No point." Tony glared at him as though disgusted to be responding to such an obviously stupid question. His expression switched to bored indifference but his hand flexed as he asked, "Why are you here?" in a mildly curious tone.

"Because you're not out there, dumbass. You've got Ducky and me combing the halls looking for you."

DiNozzo subtly started, then shrugged and returned to his weary stare.

Gibbs was getting nowhere, so he switched to a different tact. "That was a good job out there, Tony."

The detective rolled his eyes.

Gibbs took that as a sign he'd pushed a button.

He repeated himself, trying to get some kind of normal response to his rarely-given words of praise. "That was a good job out there, Tony."

DiNozzo rolled his forehead back to the wall away from Gibbs, posture portraying only bored indifference.

That was a mistake, for Gibbs was now sure he was onto an unexpected weakness. Could the man not take a compliment?

Grabbing on to the other man's arm, Gibbs forced him to turn half around, and inserted himself next to the wall, neatly trapping DiNozzo in a manmade corner. "That was a good job out there, Tony." He'd force it down the kid's throat if he had to.

Tony's breathing suddenly quickened, his sides retracting inward with each intake of air so far that his ribs strained against his skin, as though trying to jump out of his body. Dull eyes flickered to unpredictable life, revealing brief twinges of fear and unease covered over with intense anger.

In a seething low voice, Tony hissed, "Do not fuck with me, Special Agent Gibbs. I am not in the mood." Tony removed his head from the wall and stood in an imposing, looming stance that he, though taller than most, generally avoided. The walls of his abdomen continued to inflate, collapse. Inflate, collapse.

He looked feral.

Gibbs gentled his grasp, but did not let go of DiNozzo's arm. With his left hand, he used two fingers to push up under the man's chin, forcing a steady gaze between them. "That was a good job out there, Tony."

DiNozzo tried to jerk away, though he refused to retreat. In fact, he looked ready to attack. Gibbs let go of his chin and smacked him upside the back of the head and shouted. "Hey! I am not fucking with you. I am telling you that you saved those worthless dipshit's asses."

Tony halted his rage as though it were nothing and stared at Gibbs with a blank expression. "I almost didn't. What if I hadn't been able to?"

"Didn't look to me like you were struggling." Had he missed fear in the man during the fiasco?

"One word wrong, Gibbs. One less drop of blood on the ground. One more step from either of your probies. One piece out of place, and I've gotten all of you killed."

_Ah._ "But you didn't."

"But I could have."

"But you _didn't_. And you didn't cause the situation. You solved it."

"It's that simple to you, huh?"

"Well yeah, DiNozzo. It is that simple."

Silence fell between the two. Gibbs let go and both men leaned their backs against the cool cement wall.

There were a lot of things that needed doing. Leads to pursue. Suspects to interrogate. Probies to kill. But as impatient as he often was, Gibbs found it remarkably easy to stand still for a moment.

Sometimes it was easier to get your point across without words.

* * *

He had just wanted ten minutes to himself. Ten lousy minutes. Five, even. Five pintsized minutes without doctors poking him or intent eyes scrutinizing his every movement. Five minutes to give in to the pain searing across his side, so he could accept it and move on.

Rat bastard couldn't even give him five minutes.

Now Tony was embarrassed.

This wasn't his way. He didn't have emotional conversations in the bathroom with taciturn feds. He didn't need to talk shit out. He certainly didn't need to listen to half-assed compliments.

He waited for Gibbs to say something else; to snap out that time was wasting or that Tony was a pansy ass.

But Gibbs just stayed, shifting slightly so that his upper arm pressed lightly against Tony's own.

A mistake. An accident, probably. No big deal.

Tony prepared himself for the agent to start tapping his fingers in impatience, to stalk off in a disgusted huff, to get up in his face again and tell him off.

But Gibbs just stayed. Right by his side. No demands, no prods to get moving. A solid presence that demanding nothing in return.

Curious now, Tony resisted his natural impulse to fill the silence and stayed quiet himself.

He relaxed against the cool wall, letting his mind wander after a few minutes.

This bathroom smelled oddly, like goldfish crackers and mouthwash.

He imagined goldfish crackers swimming through a lake of Listerine. Would they melt?

The image of a gun pointed at the stupid probies came to mind, unbidden. He swatted it away.

Goldfish crackers – cheese – he needed to buy more cheese. Used up most of the shredded stuff on the pizzas this past weekend.

Gibbs staying at his place – now that was a surreal experience.

Gibbs nearly going over the overpass. Gibbs, with a posse of guns aimed at him.

Tony controlled his breathing and let the image stand for a moment. Sometimes shoving things away meant they only came back faster and harder. He let the mental picture fade, softening around the edges and changing to a picture of Abby.

A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth.

Damn feds were taking up all his brain space.

He surreptitiously glanced at Gibbs, who continued to stay silently in place.

Finally, he gave in. "Don't you want to get going? We need some new leads on the case."

Gibbs shrugged. "I've got some time."

Tony blinked.

That might be the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him.

The two stood in companionable silence next to the rusty radiator in the men's room for an indeterminate amount of time.

Indeterminate because for once, neither of them was paying attention to time. There was no counting of minutes, no thoughts of wasted seconds. No urge driving them to fill every moment with building inertia to attack the case.

Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs stood in silent support of his partner, letting the other man choose when he was ready to rejoin the battle. It was the first time in a very long time that he had done so.

Detective Anthony DiNozzo, Jr. stood in silent reverie of the silently offered support, accepting it and letting the undemanding presence of someone he respected bolster his flagging reserves.

It was the first time he had ever done such a thing.

The bathroom door opened. "Jethro? Anthony? Are you in here?" A pause, then a sigh. "Oh, dear. How did I manage to lose the other one as well? Worrisome as a lot of new puppies, I swear…" The doctor moved on.

Gibbs smiled, and for once Tony forgot to.

They studied each other for a moment. Then both moved toward the door in unspoken accord. As they exited, Tony regained his composure, feeling his features lighten and his mind start buzzing around the case again.

Gibbs' expression slowly returned to an impatient scowl.

But something had changed, subtly.

Tony docilely followed the older man back to the white, cold exam room and willingly plopped himself on the bed while Gibbs went to find Ducky. Again he thought, _This isn't me. This isn't my way._

But was change always such a bad thing?

* * *

A little over two hours later, they returned to the Navy Yard. As they entered, the security guards on duty seemed relieved to see DiNozzo. "Tony! You okay, man? We heard what happened."

Lousy freaking talkative dispatch gossips.

Gibbs hated gossips.

Except when they gave useful information during a case.

DiNozzo grinned easily, "No big deal, just a scrape. Honestly, I think it would've been fine with a band-aid."

Gibbs snorted, and they moved through the checkpoint.

They took the elevator to the bullpen. Gibbs was wary; if those damn fools had disregarded his orders and were lounging behind their desks rather than in the hard, uncomfortable chairs of interrogation…

Thankfully, they were not in sight. But he still had to deal with them, and quickly, in order to get focused on the case again.

He took the stairs two at a time, aware that DiNozzo was following behind more slowly.

Morrow met him in the hallway to interrogation just as Ducky, newly returned to the Navy Yard himself, emerged from the elevator.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow, letting them know he was aware and unimpressed with their attempt to pen him in.

"Jethro," Morrow warned.

"Director," Gibbs acknowledged, without giving way.

"Party!" Tony exclaimed from behind them, dodging Ducky and neatly inserting himself next to Gibbs.

"Detective," Morrow softened slightly. "I'm glad to see you up and around."

Gibbs gave a short laugh, diffusing the tension in the group by a great deal. "You try to keep him down."

Tony beamed a winning smile at no one in particular.

Gibbs shot a look at Morrow. "You sure got information about the shooting pretty fast, sir."

"Yes, well, as I told DiNozzo, I do have a family connection on the Baltimore force. You know how quickly word travels."

Damn gossips.

Something clicked. "Your familial connection wouldn't happen to be in IA, would it, sir?"

"Whatever would give you that idea, Gibbs?"

Gibbs let it go. Of all this problems, this didn't even rate. "Let me pass."

"Perhaps we should discuss the proper punishment before you –"

"You wanted me to build a team, director. My team, my consequences."

Ducky piped up, "Yes, well, as it does not seem like these two young men will be on your team much longer, perhaps their reprimand would best come from the director himself?" Though his voice was hopeful, it was clear he knew there was little chance of this actually happening.

"Let me pass," Gibbs reiterated.

Reluctantly, Morrow turned to the side.

Gibbs swept past him, then turned into the observation room, much to the surprise of the other three men.

He nodded towards interrogation. "DiNozzo."

Tony's expression flickered with what Gibbs thought was true amusement. "Yeah?"

Shrugging, Gibbs acknowledged, "Your turn."

Tony took off.

Morrow stage whispered to the medical examiner, "Gibbs is taking turns?"

Even the tech in observation broke protocol long enough to stare in disbelief.

"This should be good," was all Gibbs said.

They watched as Tony entered the small room where the probies sat, dejected.

Wadusky brightened when he saw DiNozzo walk in on his own two feet, then looked like he might puke. "Tony! Are you okay? I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He blabbered on.

Greene just watched, cautious.

The detective ignored them, pacing the boundaries of the room and casting his glance everywhere, learning the space. On this third lap around the room, he stopped and smoothed out his hair in the mirror, straightening an imaginary tie and winking at the observers.

"Cocky," Morrow noted.

"I would call it more playful," Ducky returned. "Jethro, do you have any idea what the boy has planned?"

"Nope. Just figured if it were me in there, I would kill them." And since he got to read the riot act to the rookie cops, Tony might as well have a go at the probies.

His face tightened. It wasn't really a fair trade. The Baltimore rookies may have screwed up his crime scene and potentially set the case back, but they'd done so in a lame attempt to help someone. The NCIS probies had no such excuse.

And they _had_ hurt someone.

Tony finally sat down and smiled lazily across the table.

Both men smiled tentatively back.

The lazy smile sharpened. "Report," he commanded.

Gibbs chuckled at the detective's tie back to his own interview, days before. Everyone should pick up pointers on the fly like that, but it was rare to find in practice.

Greene started. "I found a connection between some tattoos. But I couldn't reach either of you, I left messages, even tried the Baltimore station since I know neither one of you have working cell phones." He said this with emphasis, as though Gibbs and Tony were to fault for the entire ordeal.

Tony didn't say anything, but Gibbs saw the shift in his posture. He was less amused now.

Greene continued, "Couldn't reach you. So Wadusky and I thought we'd just case the place out, drive by, maybe watch the comings and goings, see if anything looked suspicious."

Wadusky looked over at his partner, surprised. "You said we were going to interview the suspects."

God bless fools.

Greene issued a pained smile. "You heard me wrong. I said maybe Gibbs would let us sit in on the interview this time. He doesn't normally, you know. He just leaves us at our desks, wasting agency resources."

Gibbs was disgusted with himself for not paying more attention to internal matters. He had preferred Greene to Wadusky – at least he could remember the kid's name, and he'd seemed smarter and a little more seasoned.

He was also apparently a manipulative (not in a good way), backstabbing ass.

"So we got in the car, sped up to Baltimore, even stopped at your precinct, Tony, but no one was around. So we drove on to Max's and were just gonna take a stroll by when we turned the corner and saw that guy about to shoot you."

DiNozzo cocked his head to one side. "So you were sure he was about to shoot me?" he asked curiously.

Wadusky frowned, sensing something fishy was up and trying to anticipate where Tony's line of questioning was going.

Greene nodded, confident. "That's sure what it looked like. We were just protecting you."

"That's interesting," came the predatory, silky reply. "Then why didn't you shoot?"

Morrow blinked. "That's not the line of questioning I expected."

It wasn't what Gibbs had expected, either, but it was a good damn point.

"I…uh, what?" Came Greene's graceful reply.

"You rounded a corner ahead of your partner, and saw two fellow agents facing a rather large number of hefty gang bangers, one of whom you thought was reaching for a weapon."

"Yes!"

"So naturally, you waited for your partner to call out, 'Gun!' and fire, doing nothing yourself but raising your own weapon and edging back towards the corner of the building."

"I was just practicing restraint. Wadusky got trigger-happy…he jumped the gun."

Tony let out a little incredulous laugh, "Oh, way to throw your partner under the bus! Very cool. That's classy. I wish I could be classy like you."

"I'm just telling it like it is!" Greene looked alarmed.

"Right. And how it was, was that you were _so_ sure Gibbs and I were in danger that you _had _to protect us. But your own partner, who did try to protect us, was out of line?" Tony was still leaning back in his seat, at ease, but his words dripped with scornful sarcasm.

"You're putting words in my mouth!"

Wadusky looked cold now; he backed his chair away from his partner's and kept his mouth shut.

"Look at your partner, Greene. He knows you'd toss him to the wolves – or worse, to Gibbs – to protect your own ass. And look how quiet he gets. He's not eager to sell you out even after all you've done to encourage him to." DiNozzo stood and walked around the table, leaning in next to Greene's face.

The probie remained staring straight forward.

Tony quietly spoke to the side of his face. "It was Abby's lead on the tattoo, asshole. And it was your idea to go chase it down, not your partner's. It was your idea to break with Gibbs' orders and leave the office, drive into gang territory and assume you could blend in. Your idea to potentially screw up an interview that could crack the case."

Leaning in even closer, he spoke directly into the pale man's ear in a tone made all the more menacing for its false tone of amusement. "And it was you, Greene, who rounded that corner and ducked behind your younger partner when you saw the big, bad man reaching for a gun."

The next word was too soft for the microphones to pick up, but Gibbs could read lips.

"Coward," Tony breathed into Greene's ear.

"Coward."

At this second utterance, he backed up a step with a cheerful smile. "I got some really good advice the other day. I'm paraphrasing here, because I'm a little less taciturn than my wise friend. But the essence is this: If I spend my time yelling at you, you can take it as a sign that you're worth the effort of yelling at. I don't really like yelling, it gives me indigestion," Tony paused, as if considering this. "So if you're not worth the effort, I'm not going to bother to do the yelling. I'll just wash my hands of you and you won't hear from me at all anymore. Clear?"

Greene nodded, clearly bracing himself to be yelled at.

Tony sat on the table between the two men and stared at Wadusky, who was nearly as pale as he had been immediately after the shooting, but he looked Tony straight in the eye.

"Wadusky!"

The kid jumped at Tony's loud, harsh tone.

"What the hell were you thinking! Do you think you're ready to go interview a suspect on your own? Do you think it's a good plan to walk into a situation where the bad guys have weapons and shoot before announcing yourself? Do you think this job is a _caper_, Wadusky?"

DiNozzo continued to berate the youngest agent, raising his voice to what one could definitely call a yell.

His back was to Greene the whole time.

Gibbs had been expecting an entertaining DiNozzo interrogation scene like he'd witnessed back at Baltimore.

He should know better by now than to assume.

"Director," Gibbs said with his eyes still fixed on the detective. "I recommend suspension of Agent Greene, with probably dismissal following a full investigations of his conduct."

"And Wadusky?" Morrow asked.

"Send him back to FLETC for another round of training. That ought to be embarrassing enough."

Morrow nodded, thoughtful.

Ducky added, "This is not at all what I expected of today."

In that, they were all in agreement.

Through the window, they watched DiNozzo wrap up his verbal castigation of Wadusky and stalk out of the room.

A moment later he bounded into observation and looked at Gibbs expectantly. "Can we go talk to the tattoo parlor guys now?"

"Yeah, Tony. We can go talk to the tattoo parlor guys now." He collected his detective and left observation, leaving the probies for Morrow to deal with.

They weren't his problems anymore.


	26. Chapter 26

There were only two employees at the tattoo parlor: a tall thin guy called Glenn who was wearing a bright orange "Mommas don't raise no fools" shirt with the sleeves ripped out, and a dumpy guy named Reynolds in a dirty white wifebeater who had a rather large neck tattoo that read "Sunshine and Daises" in giant purple bubble letters.

Neither man seemed overly bright.

_Shocker, _Tony thought as he considered insisting that some mommas, somewhere, must be raising fools.

Both of the men quickly provided alibis for the time of Collins' murder. DiNozzo would run them later, but they sounded solid. He wasn't getting bad guy vibes from these twerps anyway, and judging from Gibbs' expression neither was he.

Taking them down to the station seemed like a waste of everyone's time, so Gibbs questioned them in their shop while Tony poked around, half listening.

"Do you remember Keith Collins? Tattoo of Bill the Goat, just a couple weeks ago?" Gibbs held up a photo.

"Yeah, that's my work," Reynolds offered. "Good kid. Sat still, no bitching about the needles."

"Did he come in with anyone?"

"Nope, not that I saw."

Glenn was working on a client, filling in the color of a pink flamingo on roller skates on the lower back of a tiny blonde woman. She spotted Tony watching and flipped him a smile. "I'm gonna make a chain," she said, gesturing around her belly and back in a loop. "I got a hippo, spider, bear and now a flamingo. Got room for at least three more."

"A chain of roller-skating creatures?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yep." She nodded firmly.

Though he thought she was nuts and the artwork dubious (the bear looked more like Alf), he smiled at her easy decisiveness. "So you're in here a lot? Or you go to different places?"

"I always come here. Once you find a tattoo artist you're comfortable with, it's better to stick with 'em than trying your luck with a new one. Kinda like a doctor, you know?"

Glenn nodded in agreement, then used his shirt to wipe his runny nose before returning to work.

"Yeah, I can see why you wouldn't want to lose this guy." At least the flamingo looked like a flamingo. Sorta. It looked more like a pink stork to him, but the only flamingoes he'd ever seen were plastic.

Behind him, Gibbs had the photos of the other victims Abby had linked to this shop out for Reynolds to peruse.

"Yep, I did this one too," Reynolds tapped one of the photos. "Standard rose thing. Nothing exciting. Think Glenn did this guy." He tapped another photo, but one of a victim's tattoo rather than his face.

Gibbs stepped over to Glenn, whose face lit up as he saw the photo. "Yeah! Last summer. I remember because the guy sold Tootsie Roll Pops in some store he had, and he brought us a box."

"You remember anyone in with him?"

"No, just the suckers. Real sad, though. That guy would've come back. He liked the ink."

"You get a lot of repeat customers?"

"Oh, yeah. We get a lot of one-timers for the standard rose, heart, butterfly, barbed wire, stuff like that. But a lot of them get hooked on the art, come back for more."

Tony took the pictures from Gibbs and held them out for the skater chick to see. "Any of these people look familiar? Maybe from your other trips here?"

She looked at each of them intently, but shook her head. "Sorry."

Gibbs grabbed the pictures back and stalked over to Reynolds. "Where is Max?"

"Max who?"

Gibbs closed his eyes for a second before proceeding. Tony was hoping for steam, but sadly none appeared out of the agent's ears.

"This place is called Max's. Does a guy named Max own it?"

"Nope, Glenn and me, we're the only owners. No other employees right now, either."

"Did you buy it from a guy named Max? Maybe in the past few years?"

"Nope. Bought it about five years ago. Guy named Phil. Weird guy, green feathered hair. Looked like a parakeet."

Tony changed directions, "How many regular customers do you have?"

"Regulars ain't the right term, more like repeats," Reynolds said. "Hard to say, exactly. Probably had a couple thousand repeats in the past year or two."

His sinking feeling now continuing to his feet, Tony continued his line of thought. "There's what, at least 10 tattoo shops around here?"

"Yeah, over twenty in Baltimore. But we got a better customer base than some, since we've passed all the health inspections. You wouldn't believe how dirty some of those other places are."

Ignoring that scary, unnecessary thought, DiNozzo prompted, "I don't suppose you know what percentage of people has tattoos?"

"A quarter. Maybe more around here. Higher population of military guys and younger people means it's probably higher here."

Maybe Reynolds wasn't entirely useless. At least he knew his own field.

But the information he gave them wasn't welcome.

Three people in a victim pool of over two dozen in one city sharing the same tattoo parlor over five years. If the national average of people with tattoos was really 25%...

Tony glanced at Gibbs. "How do you feel about coincidences when they seem to actually be coincidences?"

"Shut up, DiNozzo," Gibbs grumbled, but it lacked bite.

They had nothing.

Again.

And, they found as they trudged back to the car, it was snowing.

Again.

* * *

Gibbs drove them back to the police station, more out of a need to regroup somewhere than a real need to be there.

"I want Abby to go over all the old evidence on the previous victims."

DiNozzo shrugged, "Sure, if we can get Mallace to sign off on it. But Baltimore PD's lab geeks are backed up, not bad. I don't know if Abby's going to find anything we can use." The detective sounded defeated.

_Don't quit on me now,_ Gibbs thought. Then he scowled at himself. He didn't _need _DiNozzo on this investigation. He was merely tolerating him since it had been his case first and he seemed competent.

He parked the car, then snapped, "You wanna call it a night, you can leave any time you want."

"I'd miss your sparkling conversational skill. Come on, time to get you coffee." Tony got out of the car with a muted squeak as he stretched his abused, lanky body out. Then he walked at an easy pace towards the building, not bothering to look back to see if Gibbs was following.

For a split second, Gibbs thought about leaving. Going back to NCIS, having someone from legal get all the evidence from Baltimore PD, and working the case on his own, as he was used to doing. As he was meant to do. He obviously wasn't meant to have probies. He didn't have the time to take care of them, to paper train them, to discipline them. He had a damn job to do.

"Didn't know you enjoyed wasting time second guessing yourself, Gibbs. I'll be inside working when you decide you're ready to play nice." All inflections of defeat had been banished from DiNozzo's voice. In fact, he sounded slightly accusatory.

Wasting time? _He_ was wasting time?

Gibbs set off after DiNozzo with anger simmering. He caught up with the man just inside the door, but so did Leo.

The smaller man's body language screamed subordinate as he weaseled close to Tony quivering with nerves, but his voice was steady and his eyes were steely as he quietly reported. "Strauss and Prika have a guy in holding for using a copper pipe to bash in the head of a pizza delivery kid. Apparently after he killed the kid, he continued bashing parts with the pipe until someone found him."

DiNozzo nodded slightly, but continued walking as though nothing had changed.

Leo passed Gibbs and acknowledged him with a pleasant, "Agent Gibbs, good evening," that did not match the scared-rabbit movements he made as he scurried away.

One day he was going to corner that guy and get some answers from him.

At the moment, however, he chose to follow DiNozzo. The casual posture and easy greetings he tossed out to colleagues as he passed were every bit as much of a cover as Leo's cowardly lion act; Gibbs had been around Tony long enough now to recognize the split second difference in reaction times when the detective's mind was wholly absorbed with something.

Though he still wasn't entirely certain why DiNozzo felt the need to mask deep thought with more careless or carefree facades in his own precinct. It was downright strange.

Tony blinked back to full awareness when a passing uniform wolf-whistled at him. "That's one fine woman."

"Which one of the many fine women I have regular contact with would you be referring to?" came the cocky reply.

"The one passed out on your desk."

Intrigued, both Tony and Gibbs increased their pace.

As they entered the homicide room, they could see that there was indeed a tall woman lying on her back across the length of DiNozzo's desk, knees hanging over the side and feet kicking up into the air in time to a beat no one else could hear.

A woman wearing knee-high black boots with big, big heels that looked like they could stomp small buildings.

Tony stopped a few feet away, but Gibbs continued onward, pulling the earbuds out of Abby's ears and allowing his mouth to curl into a smile to match the one she beamed up at him, somehow recognizing him before she even opened her eyes.

"Gibbs!" She lunged forward and hugged him.

Tony backed up.

Gibbs straightened with Abby still attached, pulling her up into a sitting position on the edge of DiNozzo's desk. She reached into her purse – if one could call a big black bag embroidered with purple skulls and puppies a purse – and pulled out a basic cell phone.

"Here, Gibbs. I programmed it for you just like the last one. Same number, too."

He nodded and released her, slipping the phone into his jacket pocket.

She reached back in the bag and pulled out a larger, more complicated phone and held it out to Tony. "Even I couldn't save a phone from a prolonged dunking in paint thinner. I hope you've got a paper copy of your phone numbers, but I put us in there – Gibbs is speed dial #1, I'm #2, Ducky's #3 and NCIS dispatch is #4. Oh, and I put in Baltimore PD's main line as #5."

Tony reached out slowly and took the phone, still watching her.

Abby jumped off the desk and grabbed the phone back, pushing several buttons. "Look, see? It's got a camera. Isn't that neat?" She squeezed her face in next to Tony's and held the phone out like a point-and-shoot camera and hit a button.

Gibbs felt old.

DiNozzo turned the new toy around and around in his hands, admiringly. "This is an expensive phone, Abby," he said cautiously.

"I broke yours, NCIS can pay for a new one," Gibbs said gruffly.

Abby laughed. "Maybe, but they didn't. Gibbs slipped me the cash for this."

Gibbs considered killing her, but a police station didn't seem like the best place to do it.

DiNozzo got that damn look on his face again, the one where happiness warred with wariness, as though he didn't trust the first. Overall, he looked like he wanted to run away.

Abby broke through that moment of awkwardness. "I have a bone to pick with you, detective."

Now wariness won over Tony's face as he awaited Abby's next words.

"Did you maybe forget to tell me something important?"

Confusion stole over the wariness handily.

Abby had that effect sometimes.

"Like something really important?"

DiNozzo glanced at Gibbs, questioning.

Gibbs shrugged. Abby wasn't always predictable, even for him. He had no clue where this was going.

Tony gave it a shot. "Thank you for the phone?"

"That's very sweet, but wrong. Try again."

Brow furrowed, DiNozzo obviously racked his brain. Suddenly, he stilled, a pained look crossing his face. "I lost Gibbs his probies. He doesn't have a team anymore."

Abby smacked him on the back of the head much as Gibbs had earlier. Briefly, a rebellious expression crossed Tony's face before he settled down to take it like a man.

"Wrong on both counts. You didn't lose Gibbs his team, they screwed up. And he still has a team, just a better one. Try again."

Now confusion danced with annoyance across the detective's face as he searched his memory again. "You might have to help me out here, Abby."

"Think guns."

He paled. "I almost got Gibbs shot."

This was painful to watch. Did he truly not see where this was going?

"Wrong! You kept Gibbs from getting shot. But who did get shot, Tony?"

"Ricky's thug?"

Abby turned to Gibbs. "Really? This isn't a joke?"

He gave her a small negative head shake. He'd rather it were a joke, but knew it wasn't.

Abby turned back to Tony. "You, DiNozzo. You got shot! When exactly were you going to tell me?" Her voice got higher and louder, and Tony tried to shush her as the other detectives looked over in amusement.

"I didn't get shot, just grazed. It's no big deal. Like a skinned knee."

She nodded, but Gibbs knew this game already. He was staying away from her.

"It's no big deal, you didn't really get shot," she repeated.

"Exactly! You wanna grab some dinner?" DiNozzo sounded a little desperate, but it was hard to blame him.

"I want to understand this," she barked, causing Tony to jump.

Gibbs suspected he'd overemphasized the jump to give the suddenly very commanding Abby more satisfaction, but he wasn't sure.

"A bullet was fired. It touched your body. But you weren't really shot."

"Getting shot's when you get stuck in the hospital for days and days and they remove pieces of metal from your body with long pointy tweezers or have to pack big holes with gauze to keep you from losing too much blood. I just basically got a big band-aid. They let me go in less than two hours."

Deciding he could one day be in this position himself, Gibbs neglected to mention that the doctors had wanted to keep DiNozzo overnight.

Abby stuck one long finger in Tony's face. "You will tell me when a bullet or projectile of any kind touches your person. You will tell me if you get stabbed, sliced, or otherwise bleed due to sharp metal blades. You will tell me if someone hits you, either with their bare hands or brass knuckles or a pipe or club of any nature. You will tell me if you are in a car accident, or are hit by a moving car. You will tell me if you fall and hit your head – if anything _ever_ hits your head. Or if you hit anything with your big stupid head. Do you understand?"

After a beat, Tony said loudly, "No! I do not understand, scary Abby."

"I am not asking if you understand my motivations. I am asking if you understand what I am requiring you to do in the future, starting now."

Nose-to-nose, DiNozzo still had a couple of inches on Abby, even in her boots. But scary Abby, as Tony had aptly named her, always seemed much bigger than anyone in the room.

"I understand," Tony snapped, looking like he had no idea why he was angry.

"Good! Now I'm all mad at you. I hate being mad. Gibbs!" Abby turned to him. "Let's go get caffeinated so I can cool down."

Gibbs nodded and gestured towards the door. "Back in ten. Think you can find out about that case by then?"

"Of course I can!" Tony retorted, plopping down in his chair as the other two took off towards the tiny cafeteria.

Gibbs reached for Abby's arm as they exited the room, but she tugged away and held up a finger. "One sec, forgot something." He held the door open while she dashed back to Tony.

The detective glared at her, belligerent now.

Linking her hands behind her back, Abby leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm glad you're okay, Tony. Don't scare me like that." She waited until he met her serious eyes, then darted back to Gibbs, leaving Tony looking adrift.

"Bring me a cookie!" The detective commanded loudly to her retreating back, trying futilely to bring some control to the situation.

Gibbs didn't care for the look of mystification on DiNozzo's face.

Was it possible he _still_ didn't get it?


	27. Chapter 27

Not knowing what kind of cookie was DiNozzo's favorite, Abby bought one of each of the four available types. She noted Gibbs' purchases with a raised eyebrow and a grin. "That's a lot of sandwiches, Gibbs."

She got a grunt in reply.

Abby considered poking at him further, but she didn't want him to toss the food before Tony got fed. Gibbs had clearly bought enough food for all three of them, and if he was feeding DiNozzo, chances were the detective hadn't eaten in a significant period of time.

Instead, she tried a generic, "So how are things going?"

Waiting a beat until they had cleared the short line of people and resumed the relative anonymity of a public hallway, he muttered, "DiNozzo's about ready to drop. Don't have much to go on. New lead, maybe." He didn't sound enthusiastic.

But it was adorable that he'd first thought of Tony before the case.

Judging from Gibbs' rolled eyes, he had followed her thoughts by the expression on her face. Not that she cared. She had nothing to hide from Gibbs.

She linked arms with him again, pleased just to be near to him. He was so rarely in the office these days, and she worried for him in the field, running around and doing crazy things without proper backup.

Though maybe that could change. She cast a speculative look at him. Could he loosen up enough to work with someone like DiNozzo on a more permanent basis?

For that matter, could DiNozzo adapt himself enough to survive Gibbs? Maybe even do more than survive?

"It's weird," she said aloud. It might be good for Gibbs to hear this musing.

He waited patiently for her to continue, his considerable full attention focused solely on her.

It was one of her favorite states of being, so she drew it out a few more seconds with silence. Others might find his scrutiny invasive or unnerving, but she basked in it.

"Listening to the other Baltimore Homicide cops talk about Tony, it's weird. Mostly they talk about pranks, or jokes – make him sound like the office funnyman. Like someone you wouldn't take seriously on the job. But then someone mentioned they wished DiNozzo wasn't working with you, because they needed a hand on a case." It had been a short comment, but significant in the amount of silent agreement it garnered. He was young to have that kind of respect in a place like this.

"Your opinion of him changed kinda fast, Abs."

"Gibbs, he damaged your face! I could hardly like him right away. And plus, it's not like the agents they put on your team last long, you know? Other than Burley, they're all gone within a few months, if not weeks. There's no point learning to like anybody new you bring down to the lab when I know they're going to leave so soon."

"Not like DiNozzo even works for us, Abby. No reason to think he'll stick around. So what changed?"

Her eyes narrowed as she considered taking Gibbs's statements as a challenge. "That video changed a lot," she said quietly. It definitely gave her new nightmare fodder for the next twenty billion years or so. But at least the nightmares might have happy resolutions if these two could manage to stick together. "Doing that background check helped, too. No one paints quite the same picture of the guy, but most of those cops made him sound really impressive, Gibbs. Like someone you could really count on. And having you ask me to replace his phone. You wouldn't have done that if you didn't already respect him yourself."

Gibbs just watched her, waiting for more.

How did he always know there was more?

"Those are the main factors, Gibbs. Seriously."

"And there was no single turning point, Abby? Seriously?"

She wrinkled her nose at him. "He came looking for you in my lab. I already had most of my research on him done, so I decided to give him a second chance."

"And he managed to charm you?"

"No. I tried to hug him. And I had to teach him how to hug me back. It was really sad, Gibbs."

"So you think we should add him to the team because he's sad?"

Frowning, she let go of his arm to jab him in the shoulder with her finger. "No! And you know it. He's got more experience than anyone they've added to your team. And he has to be good, or you'd have gotten rid of him by now."

Gibbs kept walking, trying to ignore her.

She stopped in the middle of the hall, unwilling to be ignored.

"He saved you, Gibbs. He works beside you. He found that not missing kid. He's still on his feet, even after all that's happened. You've known him for less than a week, and you let him run an interrogation. He let your grumpy butt stay at his place. You let _him_ stay at _your_ place."

Her voice rose, a plaintive but demanding note entering her tone as he continued to walk away. "You really don't think this one is any different from the rest?"

He stopped his forward motion, but did not turn around.

She took that as agreement.

This one certainly _was_ different from the rest.

She refused to budge, cookie-holding hands on hips.

Finally, Gibbs turned around and walked back with an expression near to anger on his face. "What do you want me to do, Abby?"

She took the question seriously. He might actually listen to her.

A thousand thoughts flitted through her head, but she settled on one.

"I want you to woo him."

Gibbs opened his mouth and nothing came out. It was the first time she had ever seen that happen. Too bad he hadn't just taken a sip of his coffee; this might have been her one and only chance for a Gibbs spit-take.

He pushed her over to the side of the hall, away from the curious glances they were drawing.

She helped by elaborating without being asked. "I think you're going to have to win him over. He's not going to beg to be on your team, Gibbs. I doubt he's even considered the possibility. He might not want to make that move. You're not the friendliest bear in the woods, you know?"

Indignant, Gibbs replied, "Shouldn't he have to impress me?"

"Yes. But he already has, without trying." She shook her head. "You need him, Gibbs. We need him. You've never taken to a cop or agent so fast. And you can't work by yourself forever. You need to make him understand that he'd be better off with us."

"Why the hell do I have to do that?"

"Gibbs! I'm hardly going to repeat myself. Now you're just being difficult." She pushed away and continued back to Tony, secure in the knowledge that Gibbs wasn't truly angry with her, just annoyed that she was pointing out facts he'd rather not acknowledge.

He needed the tough love right now. If he didn't hop on the poach-DiNozzo train soon, they might lose him.

Both of them, she worried.

She might lose both of them.

* * *

The door burst open and Abby came running in as though she hadn't seen him for months.

"Tony! I got you cookies. Chocolate chip, sugar, oatmeal raisin and chocolate chocolate chunk." She swung them in their little individual baggies in front of him. "Which three do you want? Because I get the fourth one."

He took a split second to recoup. He hadn't really expected them to bring a cookie back, much less four. "I want whatever three are your second through fourth choices."

"Excellent answer!" she beamed, passing him all but the chocolate chocolate chunk.

He noted the likely chocolate addiction and filed it away for future use.

Gibbs banged through the door, stomped over, and pelted Tony in the chest with a wrapped sandwich. "Woo?" he said in an odd half-questioning, half-bitchy tone.

What the hell? Was it time to cheer in angry voices now?

DiNozzo was exhausted, which helped his crazy mind decide to put the sandwich on his desk and raised his arms in a little dance. "Wooooo!"

It was probably mean to taunt the man who just hurled food at you, but it was just so tempting, even though he had no idea what was going on. Maybe especially because he had no idea what was going on.

If he couldn't beat the crazy fed, maybe he could at least irk him while entertaining himself.

Abby apparently did know whatever the hell was going on, as her eyes lit up and she danced around DiNozzo with a sly, knowing glance at Gibbs. "Woooooooo!"

If this was fed-speak, it was even more unintelligible than expected. But amusing. He shared a grin with Abby.

Quicker than the Flash, Gibbs had Tony pinned, hands clamping down on the desk on either side of the detective's chair. "Something funny?" he murmured scarily right in DiNozzo's face.

Tony thought he had a decent chance of backing Gibbs down if he tried to. But there was a glimmer of doubt he didn't care for, and on top of that, he preferred to save his serious side – and his scarier side – for rare moments. Overuse left them less effective.

At least for him. Gibbs probably didn't have that problem.

He could cave. It might be the most expedient thing to do.

But it didn't feel like the _right_ thing to do.

Slowly, careful to keep eye contact with the grumpy fed, he raised his arms outside of Gibbs' own outstretched arms, and jiggled them a bit in the air. "Woo Woo?" He brought out the full DiNozzo grin – not the smile meant to charm, but the mischievous, cheeky incarnation that often proved infectious.

Gibbs slapped him on the back of the head.

Hard. Really, really hard.

But damned if Tony didn't see the corners of the guy's eyes crinkle in reluctant amusement as he moved away to take a seat in a nearby wayward chair.

Abby sat on the desk again, and Gibbs tossed her a sandwich. Opening his own, the man crammed a good third into his mouth at once, then grossly commanded, "Report" with his mouth full.

Apparently table etiquette was not high on the list of Gibbs' rules.

Opening his own food to investigate its contents, Tony gave his update. "Crazy guy in holding is Wallace Tessler. He ordered a pizza, which showed up later than promised, and when the delivery kid asked where the tip was, Tessler gave him his gratuity in the form of a pipe to the face."

He took a bite. Turkey. Not so bad.

"Kid was knocked out after the first swing, but Tessler realized he'd bashed in his left cheekbone. So he did what any man would do, and took a swing at the right one to try to even them out. Spent the next few minutes trying to make them match so it would be less noticeable."

He'd rather have the cookies. He eyed them, lying seductively on his desk next to Abby's feet.

"Crazy enough to be our guy, but maybe too crazy. I'm not sure how much caution he's capable of, and our guy definitely has as steak of evil pre-planning, or at least post-carefulness. Strauss and Prika don't care if we question him. We're good to go whenever you're ready."

Having finished his food in four mouthfuls, Gibbs had returned to his coffee. "Need to call in Solas."

"Why? I don't like that guy."

"Worked with a few profilers before. Sometimes it's bogus, but sometimes it's helpful. Worth a shot."

Tony crammed sandwich in his mouth and grunted. It was easier than continuing to complain, which would get him exactly nowhere with Gibbs.

"Abby, go find the lab here and get whatever evidence they have on the previous cases from our killer."

"Gibbs, they're not just going to hand over evidence without some kind of court order."

"Oh, I think it can be managed." Tony grabbed a pen and post-it and scribbled something down. "Give this to Marguerite when you get there."

She glanced down and his scrawl. "Hack the planet? Is she an Angelina Jolie or a Jonny Lee Miller fan?"

"Matthew Lillard, of all the odd things."

Abby grinned at him. "You're using the love of Cereal Killer to help us on the serial killer case?"

He shot her a look full of intense earnestness. "Would you want it any other way?"

"Nope." She cheerfully hopped off the desk and went towards the door, post-it in hand.

Gibbs was scowling.

Again.

Tony smiled at him impertinently, well aware that the fed didn't care for being left out of anything, even movie references that he most certainly would not get.

Gibbs smiled back, which was exceedingly alarming.

"You can't get up, can you?"

So he was a little stiff. It's not like he _couldn't_ get up.

"You haven't moved from that chair since we got here." A Gibbs smirk was even worse. What was worse than alarming? Maybe freakin' scary.

"I just don't feel like it right now. What of it?"

Chuckling as though he'd won, Gibbs rose. "Gonna go call Solas. Meet you in interrogation."

He stopped at the door, smirk still in place. "You know. When you feel like it."

Unsure if Gibbs was being a bastard, or if this was his version of playful, Tony began the arduous process of climbing to his feet.

Gibbs was so not getting a cookie.

* * *

_A/N - I'd love to promise to update faster, but that horrible thing called writer's block has other ideas lately. I shall try. _

_To those who left reviews that I have not yet responded to, my only excuse is that I suck. Please don't think I disregard them. I really do appreciate them! Knowing you're still reading is what makes me keep coming back to the story, even when my fingers and brain want to slink away._


	28. Chapter 28

When Solas arrived, the question of who would occupy the observation room and who would enter interrogation was solved with expedience when Gibbs walked into interrogation and slammed the door behind him.

Shrugging, Tony went into observation, Solas not far behind.

Through the window, they watched Gibbs sit across from Tessler and level a stare at the crazy bastard.

It was only a mild intensity stare by Gibbs' standards, Tony knew. Curious. Why wouldn't he pull out the big guns?

"Detective." Solas' overly cultured tones broke the spell of silence.

"Yeah, what?"

"Could you tell me what's going on? Agent Gibbs ordered me down to the station, but didn't give a reason."

Briefly surprised, then amused, DiNozzo replied, "I don't think explaining himself is high on Gibbs' list of things to do today." Glancing away from the silent interrogation room towards the shrink, he grudgingly offered more. "You said you weren't a profiler, but you've got more profiling training than we do. Suspect in there," he jerked his chin towards the window, "likes to bash body parts. Might like him for our killer."

"He might be the man who killed Keith?" Solas blinked rapidly three times, the only indication of emotional reaction he gave beyond a new intensity to his eyes. "Ah. Well, if he'd speak, it would be easier for me to tell you something."

"Give it time."

Tony stood, watching the next room with his arms crossed. Why wasn't Gibbs making a move? They didn't have enough intel on the guy to know if drawing out a prolonged silence like this would work. The fed must have something up his sleeve, though – he hardly seemed the type to take an open-eyed nap in the same room as a murderer.

The shrink was tenser now; it was subtle, but added a buzz to the air.

To pass the time, Tony talked. "Kinda weird that you weren't nervous when you had no idea why Gibbs ordered you to the police station, but now you're all riled up."

Well. Riled up was maybe a bit of an exaggeration. But a guy had to entertain himself.

Eyes never leaving the glass, Solas replied calmly, "If I can help, I want to."

_Damn._

It sounded like Solas truly wanted to nab Collins' killer. Tony considered trying not to hate him anymore. Just because Solas gave him the heebie jeebies didn't mean he was evil personified.

The shrink in question spoke again, eyes still straight ahead. "Kinda weird that you're profiling me when you called me here to do the profiling."

With a half-innocent, half-crafty grin, Tony claimed, "Nah. I'm just your basic, garden-variety cop."

"Do basic, garden-variety cops partner up with federal agents on murder cases often?" Solas had that shrink look, the one where they tried to maintain a nonjudgmental expression while still raising one eyebrow to indicate they found something you did interesting. Like you were a bug that just started square dancing with a mouse.

That look was _irritating._ "I'm an investigator, not a paper pusher. I didn't study profiling, but it doesn't mean I can't pick up a few things. Cops have streets smarts, you know?"

Solas issued a nonjudgmental smile to go with his expression. Tony took it as a putdown, and therefore a challenge.

DiNozzo pushed away from the wall, and let a dismissive gaze fall from Solas' head to his toes. "You try to present a posh image, but you're working from the head down. I'd say your haircut is the most designer thing on you, followed by your glasses, then the tie, then the suit, then the shoes." He paused for dramatic effect, leaned in closer, lowered his voice. "But real wealth, especially old money, invades everything you do, everything you wear. So my guess is, you're from a poor background, one you're not proud of, maybe even ashamed of, working to forget your history." Tony pushed one finger against' Solas' shoulder. "How am I doing, Doc?"

"I'd have to say that to notice, you must have a wealthier background that one might think."

"Touché." DiNozzo knew he shouldn't be annoyed. He was just tired. He lost a little of his emotional control when he was this tired, so the annoying pest was getting to him a little. But recognizing it didn't always help when you couldn't stop yourself.

He wanted to win. Why didn't anyone ever get to win against a freaking therapist?

"Your shoes aren't just the cheapest thing on you, they're old and unpolished. Now, that could mean you don't care about your appearance much, but your shave is close and your hair is styled, so that seems unlikely. Maybe it means you don't have the time to deal with it right now, or maybe that you don't have the money to give it to someone else to deal with. But you've got lackeys, so that seems unlikely, too. So my guess is you had a fancier pair of shoes on you but something happened, and these were your only backups."

The corner of the shrink's mouth ticked up at the corner. "I begin to see how a detective making logical deductions is both similar and very far from a psychological profile. You're very creative."

"Am I right?"

Solas briefly glanced at Tony. "I stepped in something red and sticky at the hospital. It might've been jam. Or, not. These were in my car."

"What kinda car do you drive, Doc?"

"A '99 Buick LeSabre."

Tony grinned. "Yeah, I bet you do."

"And that tells you what?"

"Depends, what color is it?"

"Dark red."

"See, that's interesting. You put the year of the car first, which means you might place more value on the newness than the model, meaning you're not a car guy."

"True enough."

"You didn't mention the color at first, so you probably don't see your car as a fashion accessory, or an extension of yourself, just a tool to transport you from place to place." Tony leaned against the wall again, secure in victory. "You're missing out," he advised.

"And you obviously do not view your car as merely a tool, suggesting you place a great deal of value in yours as a status symbol. But in order for you to find value in it, it likely has some real purposeful value as well as the tool it was meant to be. Meaning you spent a great deal of time traveling or commuting at some point, or still do. Added to your career, I'd say that means it's unlikely you have stable romantic relationship at the moment. And, odds are that you don't feel a great draw to any one place – to a home."

DiNozzo rolled his eyes. "So I love my car. So what?"

"You're deliberately misunderstanding me."

"No, I really do love my car." Tony examined the fingernails of his left hand.

"You like to win. But do you always like to win fairly?"

"Who defines fair?"

"That is a very interesting question. Somehow I think your counterpart in there wouldn't ask it." Solas pointed towards the two silent men in the next room. "I'm curious, what do you see when you look at Gibbs?"

_Ah, the game gets serious_. "The worst haircut I've seen in a long, long time. And I once busted a crack operation run entirely by guys with mullets, so that's saying something."

"Aside from the haircut, Detective. Aside from the clothes, the trappings of the man. What do you see?"

Tony studied Gibbs through the window. What did he see?

Sharp eyes. And sharp eyes meant a sharp mind. Gibbs was no buffoon.

Stubbornness. The shoulders, the expression, the effortless domineering posture all conveyed a stubborn streak, and with that stubborn streak, a sense of strength, a great measure of fortitude. He flashed back to the night of the accident, but shoved it out of his mind.

Arrogance. Not so much arrogance as self confidence, but still a little. Was it a front, or was it real?

Responsibility. No, no, that wasn't quite right. More ability mixed with duty. Yes, duty, that was the right word. For the fed, and the Marine he used to be. Still was at heart, probably. Marines didn't retire, they just shifted duties.

Tony's focus was entirely caught on studying Gibbs now. He knew he hadn't answered Solas' question, he knew he should pull back, regain his grasp of the room, his control of the situation. But he was so damned exhausted, and it sounded like so much work. So he let his thoughts float, since Solas returned his attention to the glass and remained silent.

Gibbs was no superhero. He was kind of an ass sometimes, honestly. And he had weaknesses. He wasn't perfect. He could be hurt.

Again a flashback to the night of the accident. To working the flipped cars in the dark, in the slush. Helping the victims, and helping each other move on when there was nothing they could do. To Gibbs sliding over the edge.

Tony blinked and gave a small jerk of his head, loosening the thoughts and tossing them aside. But a memory of the stairwell after his first meeting with Ducky popped in to replace them. Confronting Gibbs, standing up to him, feeling him out. Then fighting with Gibbs – the fist fight, their first encounter.

He didn't notice a smile tug across his own face.

They could keep up with each other. And as commanding as the bastard could be, he could let go – he had let Tony take the lead with the missing kid, let Tony handle the gang when the rookies screwed things up. Wasn't happy about it, maybe, but he had let it happen.

Jesus. Guns and rookies and Gibbs and gang members and tattoo parlors. If he never had to deal with another gun pointed in the wrong direction, that'd be just fine. He had no desire to see his partner's head explode in front of him.

Were they partners? Temporarily? Gibbs liked to run the show, but if what Gibbs wanted continued to be what Tony intended to do anyway, he hardly cared.

Solas murmured, "Why doesn't he do something? Ask a question?"

Distractedly, Tony replied without thinking. "Give him time. He'll get it done," and returned to his musing.

Solas' eyebrow raised again, but not in the aren't-you-a-curious-alien way this time – more a human expression of disbelief. "Have you two known each other long?"

"A week? Less, maybe. It's been a long couple of days."

"That's impressive."

"Of course it is. What are we talking about?"

"You trust him. Without consideration, without hesitation. True trust is a rare thing. And I get the feeling that you're not exactly the trusting type. So, that's impressive. Fast. You two must gel well."

"Couldn't be more different, doc."

"I doubt that, detective."

Trust?

Did he trust Gibbs?

He'd never even seen Gibbs in a true interrogation. Why did he assume Gibbs would get the answers they needed?

Suddenly Gibbs himself leaned back in his chair, posture loosened, nearly lounging. "Damn delivery guys."

Crazy Punk's bushy eyebrows narrowed. "Don't you say anything about the mailman. Mailmen are good, solid people. They come at the same time every day."

"And if they don't, they have a damn good reason," Gibbs agreed.

"The UPS man, he's shady. Shows up whenever he wants to. No regard for anyone's schedule, no regard at all."

"But at least he didn't promise you he'd be there a certain time. You know he's unpredictable."

"Exactly!" Spittle flew. "Exactly! The boy from Golden Wok would never promise to be there in 25 minutes and not show for an hour. Never!"

Gibbs shook his head in apparent dismay. "No respect."

"A man has to eat!"

"You always order in? Never go out to eat? Hard to get a table sometimes, have to wait around…"

"Exactly!" Mr. Exactly jumped around in his chair. "So unpredictable."

"Wallace, when's the last time you left your house before today?"

Brow furrowed, the man asked, "What month is it?"

Tony and Solas looked at each other in the only moment of common understanding they would likely ever share.

This wasn't their man.

* * *

Two hours later, Solas had gone and Wallace had been transferred back to the arresting cops, and Tony sat with his chin propped on his folded arms, staring at the wallpaper on his computer – a picture of a Mountie Tony had arbitrarily named Roy.

Roy the Mountie would know what to do right now. He'd never lie down on the job.

Mmmm, lying down. Sleep sounded so good…

Mentally shaking himself away from the lure of that particular forbidden drug, he tried to get up.

Nothing happened.

Normally he was excellent at motivating himself. But normally he had something to go on. Anything. A crazy idea. A hunch. An actual freaking clue.

He was tired of having nothing.

"Hey." How did Gibbs make 'hey' sound like a command?

"What?" Tony snarked.

"I gotta go back to DC."

Of course he did. Probably to get away from the worthlessness in front of him. Tony didn't bother to raise his head, merely tilted his face to his cheek so he was looking at Gibbs instead of Roy. "Okay. See you whenever."

"Hey!" A sharper tone, definitely a command and a reprimand all built into one.

Too bad Tony didn't actually work for the man, or he might give a shit. He considered blowing a raspberry instead. "Take off, then."

Gibbs' fist slammed down on the desk. "You do not give up. You hear me, DiNozzo?"

"I'm not giving up." He meant it, but it sounded lame even to himself.

With a sigh, Gibbs looked away. "I have to go back to DC to sign some papers early tomorrow morning."

Oh.

_Oh._

Tony tried to wipe the cobwebs from his head. All he managed to do was push himself off the desk and flop his body backwards until it hit the back of his chair. "I thought that was all finished the other night?"

"Never enough paperwork for lawyers, DiNozzo. There are rules for these things."

He felt like a shithead for whining about how tired he was when Gibbs was still dealing with a drawn-out divorce. "Okay. I'll go over some of the older cases again, see if there's anyone that might be worth re-interviewing."

"You do that. Tomorrow. Go home and get some sleep, Tony."

"I'm good. I'll hit the vending machine, get some sugar, wake myself up." If he could get to the vending machines.

"I need you to do something for me."

Man, if ever there was a sentence from Gibbs that would make you straighten up and pay attention…

Tony straightened up and paid attention.

"Go get Abby. Take her back to your apartment, make sure she gets at least four hours of sleep."

Gibbs started to turn, as if to leave. He stopped, pointed a finger in Tony's face. "She gets your bed. With the door closed, and you not in the room. You sleep on the couch. Got it?"

The grin came naturally to Tony, just as the headslap came naturally to Gibbs.

Both oddly satisfied, they parted for the evening.

* * *

DiNozzo braved the empty forensic labs to search for Abby and finally found her dancing around a lab full of chemicals to music only she could hear.

"Abby, time to sleep." He lacked the energy to try to banter with her.

"Here?" she questioned, though she seemed to have no problem with that concept.

"No, my place."

The grin on her face probably matched the grin he'd recently shot at Gibbs.

"You in the bedroom with the door closed, me very much not in the bedroom."

"Gibbs set the rules, huh? Where's he sleeping?"

"He went back to DC. Divorce stuff."

Her eyes widened. "He told you that?"

"Yeah. So?"

"The only reason I even know he's going through a divorce again is because he's trashed three phones in a month and keeps restating lawyer rules. He never told me outright."

Uncomfortable, not wanting to make it seem like Gibbs was actually _confiding_ in him or anything, he offered, "It's no big deal. It's not like we had a heart-to-heart on the topic."

She put her hands on his shoulders. "It is a big deal. And I think it's great." She hugged him.

He had no idea what was going on, and was too tired to care. "Sleep time."

"Okay, Tony." She made a circuit of the room, turning dials and moving vials. "Ready! Do you want me to drive?"

"No," a sleepy, self-satisfied smile crossed his face. "I've got someone I'd like to introduce you to."

They went out to the parking garage together and he honed in on his Corvette, sinking into bliss as he dropped to the seat. "Abby, meet Corvette. Corvette, meet Abby."

"I always like a car with character. Have you had her long?" Abby climbed in the passenger seat, running her hands along the dash, the door, the seatbelt.

"Yes, a while now." Years upon years. "She's my longest running relationship."

A frown crossed Abby's face. "Who taught you to drive, Tony?"

He startled. She couldn't know about that… "Mostly I taught myself. I had a couple of friends with too much money who didn't care if I tooled around in their rides and banged them up a little. Just gave them a reason to get a new one."

He turned the key in the ignition and smiled again when she purred for him. "This car was in pretty rough shape when I got her. I didn't have much money to spend, but I couldn't bring myself to settle on just any old junker."

He'd had $800 to spend, and a desperate need for a car to get him between his job and classes during college.

"When I saw this one, I just knew. She had a lot of rust, a holey muffler, all sorts of engine problems, ripped up seats. But she still ran, and continued to run for me even when parts fell off." He stroked the steering wheel as he pulled out onto the street.

A very serious Abby replied, "She sounds loyal."

"The best. She never quit on me, not when I really needed her. And when I started to make a little bit of money, I put it all into her first." Loyalty had to be repaid.

"You're more at east here than I've seen you anywhere."

"She's home," he said simply, and realized Solas was wrong. A car didn't have to be just a tool or a status symbol. And a home didn't have to be some stationary place you always returned to.

He was weary enough to be honest, at least with himself, even if it sounded sentimental. But inside this car was the place he felt most comfortable, the place he felt most loved.

He smiled at the fanciful thought – his car loved him as much as he loved it.

It could happen.

They rode in silence for a while.

When he parked at his apartment, he considered letting the sloppy words come out, telling her how much his car loved him.

It's not like he could point to anyone else who did the same.

Instead, he shrugged aside the foolish thoughts and put a grin in place, letting his head sink to her shoulder. "I'm sleepy, Abby."

She smiled back at him. "You're kinda cute when you're like this."

He removed his head from her shoulder. "I'm _always_ cute."

"It's definitely time for bed."

The both grinned. Gibbs would have killed them.

So close to a real bed now – or a real couch, whatever, he wasn't going to be picky – motor skills started deteriorating and he leaned on every wall and surface he could find as they climbed up the stairs to his door.

His tour consisted of pointing. "Bedroom. With bed included. Clean sheets in the closet next to the bathroom if you want them. Bathroom. Kitchen. Couch." He started towards the couch, but stopped himself.

"Clean sweats in the top drawer in my bedroom, you can sleep in those if you want. Don't have much to offer you for clothes for tomorrow."

"I've got a change of clothes in my car, don't worry. Thanks, Tony! Now get some sleep. You totally look like crap." She pecked him on the cheek and went off to the bedroom.

He fell on the couch, then remembered falling on bullet wounds – even grazes – was not a great idea. Moaning softly to himself, he kicked his shoes off and turned to his less battered side.

He debated taking off more clothes or getting a pillow but it seemed like far too much work. Everything was fine as it was.

He started to drift off as Abby reappeared in the dim glow the bathroom and bedroom lights provided the rest of the apartment. She was wearing an old Ohio sweatshirt with the arms cut off and his blue workout shorts.

Somehow, it worked on her.

"Tony," she called softly.

"Mmfh?" he replied intelligently.

"I think if your car could talk, she'd tell you she loved you too." She padded back to the bedroom.

Pleased with the world in general, Tony finally relaxed into slumber.

* * *

At the same moment, on a dark road with a buzzing, flickering streetlight not so far away from where Tony slept, another man was murdered by the Baltimore Basher.

* * *

_A/N - Props to Agent Malkere, who suggest Tony's computer desktop image._


	29. Chapter 29

Abby awoke in bliss. She stretched and luxuriated in the feel of silky sheets and a welcoming down pillow. Her own tastes ran to firmer mattresses, but it was impossible not to appreciate this decadent bed that felt like it was accepting your form, protecting you, surrounding you with sin.

The faint smell of Tony didn't hurt the situation, either. She inhaled again, too content to move.

A lone beam of sunlight filtered through the shutters to dapple patterns on the opposite wall, and her nose detected another delightful smell – breakfast.

She allowed another few minutes of uncomplicated happiness before reminding herself she had work to do, and a responsibility to herself, the victims, and Gibbs and Tony to get it done, to find them a clue that would nab their bad guy.

Then she got up. More accurately, she forced herself to roll out of bed onto the floor, as it was the only way she was going to escape from the wickedness that was DiNozzo's bed.

She laughed to herself as she crawled along the floor. _Note to self: never describe Tony's bed to Gibbs unless I want him dead and gone._

She pushed herself up on the wall and threw the door open, wondering if now was an appropriate moment to try an herbal cigarette. As she took her first step from the bedroom towards the kitchen, the bathroom door opened and out popped DiNozzo.

A scantily clad DiNozzo.

Her new favorite kind.

He looked startled to see her, then adopted one of those not-quite-sleazy DiNozzo grins he was so good at as he started to edge back into the bathroom.

She gave him a toe-to-head look that she'd learned from watching guys hit on freshmen girls in college. It always discomfited the men she practiced it on.

Tony's feet were bare, toes flexing against the floor as he decided whether to retreat or not. His jeans were old, well-worn, and most importantly not buttoned. He had not donned a shirt yet, though a white towel hung around his neck, both ends covering his chest. Freshly-shaved pink cheeks led up to amused eyes covered by a raised brow, and messy, wet hair on top.

Too bad she couldn't play with him right now. They had work to do, and a Gibbs to obey. And she knew it would land her hopes of adding Tony to the team in the toilet if Gibbs thought anything hinky was going on between them.

She grabbed a corner of his towel, intending to steal it and snap him in the butt to get him moving towards the kitchen, but he grabbed hold of the other end, refusing to let go. She'd moved it enough, however, to see the bruises and damage he was hiding on his torso.

"Poor baby," she said quietly, registering the uncomfortable expression that caused. She pushed him back into the bathroom and yanked the towel off, throwing it into the tub. With one hand splayed across his chest to keep him in place, leaning against the bathroom counter, she rooted around in his medicine cabinet with the other to pull out some supplies.

He tried to dodge around her, but stood still after she made it known he'd have to use physical force to budge her. Because he seemed so embarrassed and discomfited by her ministrations, she tried a Gibbs technique he might be more at ease with. "You know," she said conversationally as she started in with the antibiotic ointment, "it's really not a good idea to hide any injuries or personal health problems from the team. Ducky'll just figure it out anyway, and he can help with most things, so you might as well let him."

She attacked him with gauze next. "Gibbs needs to know the state of all his team members, so he can know what to expect from us. Plus he doesn't need to figure anything out, he'll just _know _and if you don't tell him, you'll just piss him off."

Tearing strips of white medical tape off and gently using them to secure her ministrations, she added, "I'm not as magical as Gibbs, and I don't have Ducky's medical training. But if you don't tell me when you get hurt, Tony," she finished and put both hands on his face, pulling it towards her, "I. Will. Kill. You."

"Okay?" she added cheerfully.

"Okay," he said quickly, and with the appropriate amount of fear.

"Good," she accepted, "so what did you make me for breakfast?"

"Baked sausage and hash. Hope you like peppers." That was her DiNozzo, quick on his feet.

"Sounds excellent," she enthused as they walked out to the kitchen, Tony pulling on a shirt as he went.

And just like that, he returned to a normal banter, all traces of physical or emotional discomfort banished.

She'd have to keep an extra special eye on this one.

He pulled the egg mixture out of the oven and started dishing out huge portions, and her stomach rumbled. Rudely, she dug in standing up and before he'd finished dishing out his own plate.

"Yum," was all she managed between bites. It was fantastic – eggs and hashbrowns and sausage and peppers and who knew what else all mixed up into a weird kind of baked omelet.

He gave her one of those rare, real smiles, which she suspected had little to do with her appreciation of his culinary skills, when his new phone rang.

"DiNozzo," he answered, mouth full.

His swallow was labored as he listened, agreed, and hung up. He discarded his plate.

"Time to get dressed, Abby. I'll drop you at the station. If you can hang around for a few hours, we'll have new evidence for you."

"From a new case?" She didn't want the answer to be yes.

"From a new case," he agreed. His eyes said he hadn't wanted the answer to be yes, either.

Quietly they finished getting ready to greet the day. Breakfast, as it so often was in their line of work, lay a casualty of their careers, forgotten on the counter as they darted out the door.

* * *

Tony approached the scene with every bit of nonchalance he could muster. He tuned in to the part of him that was ready to take in and observe, ready to use this next death as a tool to stop the killer, to prevent more deaths. His face presented a calm professional interest that his furious eyes did not betray, as they were hidden behind shades.

He ducked under the yellow crime scene tape, holding his badge up unnecessarily for a uniform who recognized him, then walked the inside perimeter before approaching the body and crouching to take in the view.

Tucked in a small corner of the courtyard was a wooden bench with a small metal "In Memoriam" plaque for someone who must have loved this quiet courtyard and its nod towards nature in the middle of the city.

In front of the bench, on a small stone patio, the newest victim sprawled indelicately on his back. His arms were stretched out and up, as though he had been flailing to find a weapon, an anchor to secure himself to, a hiding place to keep the monster away, anything for a hand to hold on to.

His legs jutted out from a flattened stomach, intent on running away, finding purchase, kicking away death.

All four limbs had found no brace, no substance. They died reaching, but not finding.

Dispassionately, DiNozzo removed his sunglasses and studied the abdomen, which looked as though a very strong giant with a massively heavy rolling pin had tried to flatten this man, starting with his middle. Broken ribs stuck out jaggedly in all directions, like candles on a melting birthday cake.

_With strawberry icing_, Tony thought, noting the pink frost left by the cold, clear day that covered the sticky pools of blood.

The giant roller had encountered problems with the shoulder blades, which were more dented than pancaked.

The head was untouched by any tool, but more gruesome for being in such a grisly state without the alteration of man-made instruments. His tongue stuck out of his mouth, purple and engorged, as if forced out when guts crammed into an unnatural place, expelling the tongue from its rightful home.

His eyes were squeezed shut, frozen tears streaking down the sides of his face, tracks of pure white that stood out in stark contrast to the pale gray-purple of his dead skin.

Tony had a solid stomach for this job. Smells got to him sometimes, just for a moment, but visuals he could catalog, often process with little damage to himself, or at least set aside until later, until he was alone, until the case was solved.

This visual wasn't any different in that regard. He could store this repulsive mental snapshot for future nightmares and go about his job.

But the _knowledge._ The knowledge ate at him. That this man did not have to die this beyond horrifying death. That Tony should have saved him. Should have stopped the maniac doing this.

This man's death was his fault.

His breakfast rebelled in his stomach, mixing with acid and slowly bubbling up his throat with little acid-breakfast burrito bubble pops like toxic soap bubbles floating through his insides.

Standing up straight, DiNozzo fought to stand tall and not stumble back. He meant to turn around and go back to the perimeter, to call for the forensic techs and grab his own gear, but the first step he took was backwards, still facing the victim. To turn away from him was more cowardly than anything.

He backed into a hand that clamped around his shoulder, and turned in surprise, his hands low but ready for action. They dropped when Gibbs' face came into view, and kept dropping, eventually hanging loosely at his sides.

He cursed his lack of control. He didn't need Gibbs to think he was weak.

Then Gibbs caught his eye, and a wave of anger flashed out from Tony's gut, gaining speed as it poured out his gaze.

He'd allowed this special agent to work on the Collins case. He'd agreed to partner up. He'd opened up himself and this case, shared all he had with these federal agents, these people who were supposed to have more training, more resources, more everything.

And what had it gotten him?

More dead ends.

"Not your fault, DiNozzo." Gibbs hand squeezed his shoulder briefly, then fell away.

Tony's anger dissipated into the pink frost below as he finally registered Gibbs' own expression, saw the tautness at the corners of the agent's eyes, the sterner than normal line of his mouth.

Gibbs felt responsible, too.

And neither of them standing here feeling sorry for themselves was going to get them closer to catching this bastard and stopping the _next_ murder. So, falling back on training, Tony presented the case.

"Unknown male, approximately forty, found dead in the courtyard by a woman from one of the surrounding buildings taking her dog out for a walk at six this morning. No one touched the body as it was deemed unnecessary to check for a pulse."

"How'd the call come to you?"

Shrugging, Tony said, "Pays to keep friends in dispatch. They've been keeping an ear out for cases that might fit my profile for a while now, throwing me what cases they could."

"Captain still trying to convince everyone you're crazy?"

"Good thing he's as ineffectual as he is or this would've been even harder." His jaw flexed as his teeth ground together. "Not that I've done any good."

The slap to the back of his head was no longer so surprising. "Don't say stupid things. Get to work."

Gibbs refused to let anyone else near the scene, meaning Tony and Gibbs had to bag all the forensic evidence themselves. Since they were waiting for Ducky to arrive before moving the dead guy, it meant they also had the continued dubious company of the horrific corpse.

"This one's different," Gibbs said abruptly.

Tony looked up from placing a golden Werther's wrapper in an evidence bag, sparking some teasing connection in the back of his brain that his conscious couldn't quite access. "Yeah. No strangulation first, I'd say. Killed him with the crushing this time."

Gibbs nodded. "Seems angry."

Tony paused as the implication took hold. "Maybe he just had a bad day," he said slowly.

"Probably. Could mean we got close at some point, too."

DiNozzo exhaled a long, soft breath. It could. It really could.

Neither man dared speak additional hopeful statements. It was a jinx waiting to happen. Instead, they moved around each other, Gibbs explaining in short statements how NCIS agents ran a scene without forensic techs. He took photos while DiNozzo bagged evidence, then switched and bagged some himself, letting the detective sketch the scene.

It was an odd atmosphere to work in. Appalling, check. Guilt-inducing, check. Cautiously hopeful, check. Comfortable, check.

And it _was_ comfortable, DiNozzo mused. They were accomplishing something that needed to be done, and working together with no heads butting, no disagreements as to what should be done, no egos clashing. They simply took each small task one by one, trading jobs and staying out of each other's way with ease.

Ducky's arrival roused Tony from his musings, and he stood up to greet the doctor, grateful that his knee was healing quickly and allowing all these bending and rising motions without much complaint.

As he walked to the mouth of the courtyard, his eye caught on a familiar figure across the street.

Unfortunately, the figure also caught sight of DiNozzo, and took off running.

Since he could hardly sneak up on the guy anyway, Tony shouted, "Hey, slimeball! Baltimore PD. Stop or I'm coming after you!" as he took off running. If nothing else, it should alert Gibbs to his intentions.

_Ah,_ _action_, he reveled as he barreled down the slippery sidewalk. _Nothing beats it._

* * *

Gibbs rushed past a startled Ducky as he watched a bizarrely familiar scene unfold. However, whereas he had quietly pursued his mysterious figure staring at the crime scene the other night, DiNozzo apparently thought loud yelling and pounding feet would be a better option.

He growled as he took off in hot pursuit, figuring either the detective's bum knee or bruised ribs would slow him down before long.

Gibbs wasn't often wrong, but his time he was undoubtedly so.

DiNozzo added more speed as he went around a street corner ahead, yelling, "Hey asshole, the gingerbread man got eaten in the end, you know!" He seemed to have plenty of breath for yelling out random little taunts as he jetted down the next street, jumping over debris in his path with legs whirling like pistons.

A whoop filtered back from the detective as he skidded on an icy patch, regained his balance while hurdling over a busy road, and was nearly crushed by a big blue Blazer in the process.

Gibbs made a mental note to keep the kid exercised in the future. Apparently he needed the endorphins. And apparently those endorphins were good stuff, because he was pulling even further away from a better-rested, healthier Gibbs.

Dammit.

Ahead, DiNozzo was closing the distance between himself and his suspect. Foot by foot, he narrowed the space until suddenly he gleefully yelled, "The Dread Pirate Roberts takes no survivors!" and leapt onto the potentially psychopathic murder's back.

The two rolled down the sidewalk, at first appearing like a whirling dervish of limbs, but soon DiNozzo gained control of the roll and pinned the other man to the ground, then wrested his arms behind his back as Gibbs caught up.

"Hello, Glenn," Tony greeted the tattoo artist.


	30. Chapter 30

Gibbs forced the air entering his lungs to move slowly; no reason to let either of these assholes know that chase had left him breathing hard.

Actually, the run shouldn't have left him breathing heavy. Could be he was just pissed.

DiNozzo seemed none the worse for wear. He handcuffed the suspect, then looked up with a cheerful grin. "Hey, Gibbs! Nice day for a run." Standing, hauled the unresisting Glenn up behind him and started towing him back towards the crime scene.

Resisting the urge to yank Tony around by the collar – or better yet, by the neck – Gibbs didn't reply. He didn't generally open his mouth when he wasn't sure he could control what words were going to spew out.

DiNozzo shot him a curious look, then shrugged and prodded Glenn into a jog.

Flashing back to a few days ago, Gibbs recalled Mallace mentioning something about Tony going out for runs. Apparently that wasn't one of the things the worse-than-worthless captain got wrong, if the detective's earlier speed and current exhilaration were any indication.

He stalked behind a jaunty DiNozzo, who kept up a running one-sided dialogue during the trek back to Ducky and the body.

"Your form's all wrong, Glenn. You can't just flail around, your arms going one way and your legs another. You gotta have form, man. Form. If you can't run and you didn't stash a quick getaway car, what're you even doing watching a crime scene in broad daylight? That's not very sneaky."

"I wasn't trying to be sneaky!"

"Yeah, non-sneaky people run all the time when the cop that questioned them about a multiple murder investigation catches them watching a fresh crime scene."

"It could happen! No, it did happen! That's what happened!"

Tony stopped as they reached their vehicles and regarded Glenn somberly. "You are one dumb dude."

Gibbs grabbed Glenn and hustled him into the back of a waiting black and white, slammed the door, and whirled back to Tony. "Dumb? You wanna talk about dumb, DiNozzo?"

The detective's face screwed up into a series of different expressions, as though trying to find the appropriate one in response to Gibb's suddenly hostile tone. "Yeeeesss?" he answered with no conviction.

Gibbs pushed forward, his face inches from Tony's surprised expression. Abby's demand that he woo DiNozzo over kept echoing in his head, but that wasn't his style. If the detective couldn't put up with the real Gibbs, then he wouldn't last even if they did sway him to give NCIS a shot.

And who said he was so sure he wanted DiNozzo at his side, anyway?

He felt himself scowl and shoved forward even further. "What do you call running after a possibly armed suspect with no backup?"

Gibbs growled and shoved DiNozzo's chest with both palms, forcing him to take one step back.

The detective held his ground, motionless two feet away, but his eyes crackled with temper. "Hypocrite."

"What did you say?" An aura of tension and danger descended, zinging around both of them, centered in the extremely narrow space between their bodies.

DiNozzo did the unthinkable.

He took a step forward.

"I said, 'hypocrite.' You would have run after him yourself if no one else was around. Hell, you did run after me when you thought _I_ was a suspect and no one else was around."

"That's different, and not the point."

"That's not different, and is the point." DiNozzo's anger was already receding behind the normal façade.

Was it that he didn't stay mad long, or that he hid it well?

Gibbs snarled. "You know that dumbass isn't a real suspect. He's too stupid, too careless, and he already alibied out."

"Yeah, but I needed the exercise. Now I'm all bendy." Tony stretched in an exaggerated manner.

"_You're_ a dumbass," Gibbs threw out, frustrated on two fronts now.

"Yes boss!" Tony agreed with a snappy salute as he ambled back to the crime scene, all signs of the earlier sensitive young man at the crime scene, and the anger-wrapped menacing cop now gone.

* * *

After another day of pursing leads that went nowhere, and clearing Stupid Glenn as honestly having been just a passerby, Gibbs took off for home, needing the quiet, the space, and the room to think.

He paused in the driveway, which he rarely allowed himself to do. No matter how long he left, no matter who came, who stayed, who left, the house looked the same. You could paint it, kill the grass, add some shrubs, or let the neighbor kids draw on the driveway with colored chalk, but it was still the same look, and had the same feel.

From the outside, anyway.

Gibbs entered his house through the unlocked front door, and surveyed the emptiness inside the durable shell.

There were good and bad things about any divorce – he should know, he had enough experience now – and the physical space was no exception. Gone were his latest wife's Stairmaster taking up half the living room, her throwaway magazines, her bizarrely impractical shoes covering the entranceway, and her annoying orange Fiestaware dishes. He wouldn't miss any of those things.

Gone, too, was the life. The signs that someone lived here. The sweater on the back of the couch, the small souvenirs, the pictures, and any hint of color. The sense of movement, of occupancy. He was back to the still gray austerity of a ghost house.

It suited him, but it wasn't always good for him.

Sounds, too, were a mixed blessing. There was no chatter now. No incessant phone calls about office gossip, no harping at him to "talk to me, Jethro." No boob tube.

He experienced a brief moment of happiness realizing that he could cancel the cable again.

But the chiming laughter was also gone. The soft humming from the kitchen accompanying the sound of water running, and the quiet creaks of floorboards above him as he worked in the basement.

It was lonelier this way, he internally acknowledged. Especially right after they left.

But it was lonely before, too. When he couldn't talk to them. When he was just inhabiting the space with someone he couldn't truly _be_ with.

_Stupid girly thoughts_, he snorted to himself. Getting maudlin for no damn reason.

The truth was, now in the silent stillness of the gray ghost house, with only his old furniture and the shadows that softened the edges of the age of things, he could return to his true sense of home.

He turned out the light he had just turned on, and sat on the couch.

"Shannon," he murmured, then lost his train of thought in savoring the sound of her voice.

"Shannon. I fixed the squeak in the linen closet door."

Gibbs smiled. "Yeah, I know, you don't mind a little noisy character to the house. But the hinge was getting rusty. Might have to replace the washing machine soon. Damn thing breaks almost every time you use it."

He leaned back, with his arm along the back of the sofa. He remembered the feel of having someone there to wrap that arm around. The right someone. It never felt the same with anyone else.

"Got divorced again." He imagined her exasperated look, and smiled. "Probably should stop trying to get married, huh?"

The shadows allowed him to see her drifting through the house, and the screamingly loud silence echoed with the sounds of Kelly playing with her stuffed animals in the room above. It sounded like her favorite fantasyland, where the princess had to rescue the inept prince.

"Abby started bowling with nuns, of all things. Might just have to go out one night to see what that looks like."

He mused over what she would find interesting. Ventured near a work topic, though he usually tried to keep his cases out of the home. "Working with a new guy, young kid, detective. Bratty, but good. Not sure what to make of him. Not used to not being sure. What do you think I should do with him?"

There was no immediate answer, but as he'd found before, that didn't mean he wouldn't get one later, in some odd way.

His investigator side shoved that thought aside. If he got any answer at all, it was just wishful thinking on his part.

His mood shifted sharply. It wasn't the same. Gleaning answers, imagining what she'd say, it wasn't the same. He had no family, no tribe. He'd grown up with a tight group of family and a few friends. He'd moved on to the Marines, and the broadest sense of belonging and brotherhood he'd ever known. He'd settled into a small center of two, and then, later, three.

He knew he couldn't fill the void of their loss because there was no void. He didn't understand the large, gaping holes others said they felt when they lost people. He still felt the same for them, even now. He still loved his girls. He felt them near. He talked to them. He trusted them. They were his. But they weren't _here_, and he couldn't hear them, not exactly.

He missed _them_. Their exact presence, and personality. The little, every day things normally taken for granted. Small snippets of conversation that was actually welcome; leaving presents for Kelly on the bathroom counter; eating meals together; sitting quietly in the living room, everyone's attention on something different but still all together.

He'd tried to recreate some sense of family, but the divorces proved it wasn't a winning concept. At least not for him.

Gibbs knew he was a strong man, in many different senses of the word. But sometimes it was nice to be strong _for _someone. And once in a very great while, it was a relief not to have to be strong at all within the safety of where you belonged.

He remembered the feeling of having that someone who he had his arm wrapped around turning the tables, and wrapping her arms around him, making him feel small for a moment – not small in a diminished way, but small in a human, amazed way.

He rose and turned the light on, disgusted with himself and his flight of self-pity. But as he moved towards the basement, he remembered old words uttered in this room, in a lighthearted tone after a few petty officers stopped by for an unremembered reason. "I swear, Jethro. No matter what happens, even if you leave the Corps one day, you'll always have people like that. Just because you're a leader doesn't make you any less a pack animal."

So where was his damn pack now?

No answer.

* * *

He awoke with a start, the worst form of the dreams having plagued him all night. The one where they were here and then they weren't. They were dead, and then they were safe, and then they were in danger, and he couldn't discern what reality was. He couldn't figure out the _truth_.

Waking up seemed like it should bring some relief. Like having an answer should make things better.

But it didn't. Fear and uncertainty were nasty things. But uncertainty allowed hope for a future that returned them to him. And reality did not.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and scrubbed a hand across his face, deciding he should give up on sleep. Lurching up, he went downstairs in his boxers and t-shirt to start a 3 a.m. pot of coffee.

At the bottom of the stairs, he hesitated. Going with his gut, he went to the front door and opened it, letting in a blast of cold winter air. Goosebumps raced up his calves.

He stared at the form standing on his front step, leaning on the door frame. "DiNozzo. What the fuck?"

"Hey, Gibbs. What're you doing up?" The innocent face – could it be truly innocent, or just a damn good act? – stared up at him with apparent puzzlement and a very red nose.

Gibbs grabbed the man's collar and yanked him in, tossing him inside and slamming the door. Tony could've easily stayed upright, but he chose to let momentum take him to the floor, and sat cross-legged against the wall, peering up at Gibbs with a quizzical expression.

Gibbs paused. Should he have slammed the door with the precocious detective on the other side?

"I think," he said slowly, "you might be the dumbest dumbass in all of dumbassville."

"Wow," Tony said, affecting big cartoon eyes as he patted his hair back into place. "You could be the modern day generation's Dr. Seuss. Can you make it rhyme?"

"Don't fuck with Dr. Seuss, DiNozzo. Whoville is sacred."

"Fail on the rhyming, but kudos on the sentiment." He leaned his head back against the wall, seemingly comfortable. "I bet Abby can rhyme with the best of them."

Gibbs thought about tossing Tony out.

He thought about turning off the light and going back to bed.

He thought about getting dressed and heading back to the office. Any office.

He thought about asking Tony why he was here.

What he ended up saying was, "The door's always unlocked, Horton. You get frostbite on your ass, don't come to me for help." He turned and went into the kitchen to make his coffee, looking inward for an image of Shannon's face.

"Really? This is what you're giving me to work with?"

He remembered the sound of her laugh.

* * *

_Thanks to all of you who keep re-reading, keep pestering me, and keep suggesting this story to others. It's really amazing that you've all stuck around after all this time! It is still my intention to finish this story, though updates may be slow. I apologize for the long delay; real life kicked my ass. Though this chapter may not include much case progression, I hope it still feels like a natural fit to the story and resonates to those who still feel that ache a major loss continues to cause even after time has started healing the wretchedness._

_As always, I welcome your comments, not just on this chapter, but on any other. Knowing the sections you loved and the ones you want elaborated on may help me navigate back to purposeful writing._

_May we all have a new year better than the previous one._


End file.
